


The Strength of the Wolf

by tolieawake



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF Stiles, F/M, Fix-It, Good Peter, Headcanon, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Pack Bonding, Pack Building, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Stiles Fixes Things, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles fixes Peter, Time Travel, and Derek/Stiles hints and pre-slash, because I just want them all to have good things, character death but not for long - you'll see, pack bonds, there may be some Allison/Scott later on, warning for Stiles having panic attacks, warning for descriptions of seizures, warning for mentions of suicidal thoughts, with reference to feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 11:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1345657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolieawake/pseuds/tolieawake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, it's only Lydia and Stiles left. Alone and desperate, oh so desperate. Desperate times and desperate measures and all that, but emphasis on the <i>times</i>.</p><p>With nothing else left to lose, they find a way to change it all. And Stiles may just figure out the key to stopping everything that ever went wrong - well, from Peter onwards.</p><p>Because he's older and wiser (sort-of) and beginning to <i>understand</i> in a way that he never did before.</p><p>After all, the strength of the wolf is the pack, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, this fic is a chance for me to take all my assorted headcanon surrounding creepy uncle Peter (both my own from watching the show and abstractly based on multiple fics and gifsets, etc) and plot it out in a way that allows for happy endings. And fluff. There will be copious amounts of fluff in this, because sometimes I just want them to have good things, you know?  
> Which doesn't mean there won't be some angst. There will be. But lots of fluff as well. And feels. Lots of them too. I'm pretty much making it up as I go along, but do have a fairly solid plot worked out so far.

Stiles woke to the sight of the off-white ceiling of Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. It was silent, in a way that had him frowning as he turned his head to the side, expecting to see the usual array of medical equipment steadily flashing away at him. It was conspicuously absent.

A burst of fear flashed through him and he struggled upright, gaze darting around the room. It was empty. No Scott hovering by his bedside. No Derek lurking in the corner, all-but-hidden from the hospital staff. No Isaac wringing his hands as he nervously shuffled in place for a moment before drawing his bad boy persona over him like the mask it was.

There was no-one there. A pang struck hard into Stiles' heart and he swallowed, hard. There wouldn't be anyone there. They could never be there again. They were all gone. Stolen from him one by one, his family, as dysfunctional and antagonistic as they'd always been. 

There would be no more playful fights or silent conversations with Scott where the other boy simply seemed to get him in a way that no-one else ever had. No more yelling matches with Derek when they butted heads or Derek asked him to do something that had Stiles' mind and insides screaming in terror. No more push and pull, give and take, between him and Isaac, where both pretended they weren't insanely jealous of the other.

They were all gone. Just like Erica. And Boyd. And Peter – even Peter, who had terrified and intrigued Stiles by degrees. All of them, gone.

His mind shied away from the rest of it. The information he didn't want to acknowledge. Didn't want to know. Wouldn't let himself think.

They were gone and it was only him and Lydia left. Jackson was meant to join them, but had never made it. Which meant, just Stiles and Lydia and...

Freezing, Stile stared down at his hands, as he slowly lifted them up before his face. Just him and Lydia, and they'd been desperate.

His hands were smooth, skin unblemished. A phantom twinge traced down his right pointer but as he ran his thumb down it, it met unmarred skin. No burns. No scars. No pock-marks. As though his entire history had been erased.

Well, not his _entire_ history.

Lowering his hands, Stiles turned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and stumbling as he pushed himself upright. The floor was too far away, his legs too short. Feet tangling together in a familiar manner, Stiles flung his hands out, arms windmilling as he staggered a few short steps in order to gain his balance. 

There was a mirror on the back of the hospital door. Stumbling over to it, Stiles stared.

Wide brown eyes stared back at him. His lips were parted, in shock or awe or just plain fear, he wasn't entirely sure. The scars were gone. Even those he hadn't minded too much at first, thinking they made him rugged. 

Reaching up a trembling hand, Stiles ran it down his face. His fourteen-year-old face. He was still a gangly twig of a boy, but not quite as gangly as he would get, still going through that horrible growth spurt that had left his arms and legs and joints aching and thrown his already failing coordination even more off-kilter.

A small smile twitched at the edges of his lips, before peeling them back from his teeth in a half-smile, half-snarl. 

It had worked.

It had worked!


	2. I guess I kinda needed it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: there is mention of a panic attack in this chapter. Please treat with caution if this could be triggering for you.  
> Also, please be aware that the depiction of the panic attack here is fictional, I have been fortunate enough to not have personal experience in this area, and therefore have written from my understanding of but not experience with, them.

Following fast on the heels of his elation, Stiles felt the panic rising in his throat, his breath coming hard and fast, hands shaking. Stumbling backwards, he felt himself hit the bed before sliding down to collapse against the floor, tremours wracking his frame.

 

Biting his lip – until he tasted blood – Stile tried to push the fear back.

 

Because it had worked, just, not in the way he expected. He was too far back and yet not far enough. What was he meant to do _here_? Why _now_?

 

The door pushed open. Looking up, Stiles found himself staring at his father. His father! Younger and healthier and yet more broken all at once (his mind shied away from the last time he had seen his father, the knowledge contained therein).

 

“Stiles,” the Sheriff said, sinking down to his knees beside his son and drawing him forward into a hug. He didn't know, Stiles realised distantly. His dad didn't know yet. Didn't know any of it. Didn't know that Stiles was different. Didn't know that he was currently on the verge of a panic attack. Didn't know...

 

What was the date?

 

Scrambling backwards, limbs flailing, one of his arms hitting his father in the shoulder as he struggled to push himself upright and away, to know, Stiles found himself gasping.

 

“Stiles?” the Sheriff questioned.

 

“I, I,” Stiles managed to get out, eyes darting around the room. But it was bare, empty. He had a vague recollection of crawling into an empty room of the hospital in the past, waking up there and feeling empty. Alone.

 

It had been the night his mother died.

 

Breath gasping, vision dimming around the edges, Stiles tried to breath. But he couldn't. His lungs froze, refusing to cooperate.

 

Logically, he knew what was happening, even as the terror roared through him. Knew that he was having a panic attack. His first one – and yet one of many, all at the same time.

 

Dimly, he could hear his father yelling, calling for someone. Frantic hands pressed against his face, drew him back into a warm embrace, but all he could do was flail and struggle. He couldn't go through this, not again. Why couldn't he have gone back just a little further? Just a little?

 

Or hey, even a lot. That had been the intention really. This place, this time, it had never been the intent. What was he doing there? What was he meant to do?

 

He was so alone.

 

The terror crested. He struck out, limbs flailing yet vicious. He had to get away.

 

 

Coming back to himself, Stiles found himself staring at yet another hospital room roof. There was a sluggish feeling in his limbs that suggested he'd been drugged. Sedated. 

 

Scowling, he turned over, staring at the blinking lights on the monitors beside him. Soft beeps reassuring in a strangely familiar way. This, he knew how to deal with. 

 

Leaning over, Stiles quickly detached himself from the machines, while silencing any protest they may have made. Pushing himself to his feet, despite the weak feeling in his limbs, he spared a single glance for the slumped figure of his father asleep in the chair by the bed, before shuffling his way out of the room and into the corridor beyond.

 

He didn't really know where he was going, what he was doing. He just... he needed to process things. To figure out what had gone wrong and where to go from here. This hadn't been in any of the plans they had made.

 

An hysterical chuckle pressed its way up his throat, but he pushed it back down resolutely. He stumbled on.

 

Anything to get away from that room. That reminder. The room that, while better than the first one he had woken up in, was still so wrong. So lacking in people waiting there for him – even if they claimed to hate his guts (okay, so they'd never actually said that before, but he was pretty sure it had been implied at times).

 

Stumbling along, letting his feet lead him wherever, Stiles started when he realised that he recognised this part of the hospital. That he knew where he was. It was here that he had crouched down to the ground as Derek and Peter...

 

Closing his eyes, he shuffled on. It was night, the hospital quiet yet humming that way hospitals are. Full of beeps and chirps and the soft sound of people in pain. 

 

Stiles entered the room, stumbling forward and climbing up onto the bed, curling up onto it and around the figure there. He just needed to think.

 

 

Morning brought a bright splash of sunlight washing over Stiles' face. Grumbling, he rolled to his side, instinctively trying to bury his face in the body beside him, sleepily wondering who he had ended up next to this time.

 

He froze. Because that wasn't Lydia, and there was no-one else left. In fact, the body was too stiff to have been any of the others. Lifting his head, Stiles gasped, staring down at Peter's face. Peter's burnt and  _catatonic_ face.

 

They'd been so alone and so desperate, so they'd tried...

 

And it had worked, even if it was never supposed to work this way.

 

Pushing himself upright, Stiles took in his surroundings. He remembered, vaguely, wandering through the hospital the night before after his panic attack. Just wandering, trying to get his mind to accept what had happened to him.

 

He never would have thought that his subconscious would have brought him here, and yet...

 

And yet, it made perfect sense, in a way.

 

“Hey Peter,” he said, shuffling backwards so that his back was resting against the headboard, side pressed up along Peter's. “Sorry to just kinda pile on you last night without warning.” He chuckled softly, ignoring the tears that trailed down his face. “I guess I kinda needed it. Maybe you needed it, too.”

 

He glanced down, but Peter didn't say anything. Didn't move. Didn't react at all. Not surprising. It was two years, thereabouts, before Peter would be well enough to rise from his coma. To go out into the woods and...

 

Sighing, Stiles leant his head backwards, staring up at the ceiling. “Did you know that most people believe that those in comas can still hear what you say to them?” His lips pulled back once more in a half-smile, half-snarl. “So, guess what, you get to hear my dulcet tones as I babble and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. Unless, of course” he added, with a magnanimous gesture towards Peter's body, “you want to come out of your coma earlier than last time. A bit saner, too, that would help.”

 

Outside the room, the sounds of the hospital waking up drifted in. “I guess I should probably go back,” Stiles said. “Find the room I'm meant to be in and slip into bed before Dad notices I'm missing.” He chuckled. “It would freak him out to find me missing, especially so soon after... Well, let's just say that I'm currently worried I'm both too upset and not upset enough.” He scrubbed furiously at his cheeks, as though trying to erase the tears from existence.

 

“It wasn't meant to be like this, you know,” he continued. “Then again, I don't suppose anything has been the way it's supposed to be for a long time.” Turning slightly, Stiles pressed himself closer to the other man. “I know you don't know me, not yet. But I know you. Sort of. Sometimes I wonder how much of you survived. Sometimes I wondered what you would have been like if I'd met you before,” another expansive hand gesture to try and encompass everything he meant by that.

 

“Which was the point of all this, anyway,” he said. “To meet you all before. Or at least, stop things from spiraling out of control. But instead, I'm here. Here in the middle. Too late to stop things. Too early to do anything to change others yet. Why here?” he asked. 

 

There was a commotion from outside and Stiles sighed, pushing himself up from the bed. “I guess I'd better go announce my presence before they freak out too much.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “I never thought I'd ever be saying this, but I've kinda missed you, Creepy Uncle Peter.” Leaning over, he gave the catatonic man an awkward hug before stumbling out of the room and back down the hallway.

 

 

In the darkness, Peter felt his wolf curl and whimper, pressing back against the warmth that had brushed against him, oh so fleetingly. He didn't understand any of what the boy had been rambling about, but inside him, his wolf whined, and for the first time in years, he thought perhaps there would eventually be an end to the darkness that pressed him down. 


	3. better than no-one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably note here that I'm not an expert on comas, or comatose patients. Although I understand every coma is different. Everything I write is fictional and should be treated as such.

Stiles made it down the corridor and around the corner before suddenly he was being grabbed and dragged into his father's embrace. For a moment he stiffened, forcing down the instinctive response to react harshly – to fight back. The result was a stumbling flail – furthered along by the fact that his limbs, his entire body, was all wrong. All _different_ to how he remembered it. All the moves he'd learnt, each punch and kick and twist, they'd been tailored for an older body and sit awkward and heavy (or perhaps light, too light) and uncoordinated in his younger self.

 

“Stiles,” his father gasped out, drawing his hand down over Stiles' head and to his shoulders, other arm tightening his embrace.

 

“Uh, hey, Dad,” Stiles muttered. He reached up tentatively, placing his arms around his father's waist. A small part of him thrilled at the fact that he is able to do so.

 

His father just tightened his embrace, not saying anything. Is it strange, Stiles wondered, that he missed his father's admonishments in that moment? The way, once the pain and guilt of their current situation faded, his father had returned to being suspicious of him (because really, when _wasn't_ Stiles up to something)?

 

He shook his head, pushing away those thoughts. He wouldn't help anyone by becoming a sniveling mess. Or by making things worse by acting in a way that not even grief could account for. So, instead, he just held on tightly, reveling in the fact that he was able to do so once more.

 

The rest of Stiles' morning passed in a blur of voices and tests and a mind-numbingly boring (and yet somehow refreshing) period of time where he simply sat and stared at one of the hospital's walls. He thought perhaps he had freaked out a number of people with his silence, but they dismissed it as natural, considering his situation.

 

The afternoon found him at home, stumbling upstairs and into his bedroom, only to freeze.

 

Staring around his room, Stiles felt a lump lodge in his throat. His eyes watered and he felt like screaming. It was, it was real. Too real. Until that moment, he had been able to take it in his stride. After all, bodily transformations (although usually not his) and Creepy Uncle Peter being alive again were really par for the course for his life.

 

But his room... his room was just as it had been all those years ago.  _Before_ .

 

Before everything changed. Before Peter and Scott and Derek. Before Isaac and Erica and Boyd. Before Lydia and Jackson acknowledged his existence (he doesn't count Danny in that because Danny had always admitted Stiles existed, even if they'd never really hung out before and Danny had been irritatingly uninterested in the completely epic awesomeness that was Stiles).

 

The books were gone. The laptop on his desk was an older model that had died and been replaced just before everything moved from  _before_ to  _after_ . 

 

Strangely, or perhaps not so, it was the absence of the knife that had sat on his bookshelf that had Stiles stumbling over to collapse on his bed. He knew without looking (although he did that, too, just to be sure), that everything was gone. The mountain ash, the wolfsbane, the industrial-sized first aid kit. Everything.

 

Shivering, Stiles drew his arms around himself as he felt the panic licking at his insides once more. He was alone.

 

Sure, Scott wasn't far away, and there was no doubt in his mind that, should he call, Scott would come running, especially considering what had happened. But he wouldn't be the Scott from  _after_ . He was still the Scott from  _before_ . And while a part of Stiles thrilled at that knowledge, another, more selfish part, wanted his Scott back.

 

The one who would understand what he was going through without Stiles having to say anything. The one who understood what it meant to have lived through  _after_ (even though, really, Scott hadn't, but Stiles didn't like thinking about that).

 

He must have been sitting there for longer than he thought, because suddenly his door was swinging open gently, his father sticking it in.

 

“I, uh, I've gotta go back to the hospital for a little bit,” he said, giving Stiles an apologetic look. “There's -”

 

“I'll come with you,” Stiles interrupted, pushing himself up to his feet. His father frowned, but didn't comment, just nodding and stepping back to let Stiles exit his room.

 

 

The hospital was just as it had always been, and yet different. His memories were distorted and jumbled, trying to make sense of things, to sort out  _now_ and  _before_ and  _after_ .

 

Once he was in the hospital, Stiles wasn't sure what he was going to do. He sat down in one of the waiting chairs while his father spoke quietly to one of the doctors. Stiles wasn't sure why they were there, what there could possibly be left to be dealt with, but he didn't ask, either.

 

Restlessness was a part of him, and so he didn't think anything of it when he pushed himself to his feet to go for a walk. No-one else seemed to, either.

 

It wasn't until he found himself in a familiar corridor once more that Stiles admitted to himself just where he was going. The reason why he'd jumped at the chance to return to the hospital.

 

“I guess you're better than no-one, right?” he asked rhetorically as he pushed open Peter's door, stepping into the room. There was no reply, but Stiles didn't expect one. Sighing, he pushed the door closed behind him before sulking over towards the bed, coming to a stop beside it.

 

It was strange, to see Peter like that. He was used to a Peter with perfect skin, unblemished in a way Stiles had never thought about before. Never dwelt too much on what Peter had looked like before his werewolf healing had wiped all the scars away. Sure, Stiles had seen it, when he'd first met Peter, but it had been such a short amount of time, and his attention had been taken up with far too many other things (such as trying to stay alive and out of the way of the crazy werewolf fight going on around him) to think much on it.

 

Staring down at Peter, at the burns covering half his face and winding their way down under his hospital gown (Stiles morbidly wondered how far they went, before grimacing and deciding he didn't actually want to know, didn't want to know just how much Peter had suffered), Stiles allowed himself to think, for a moment, about just how much Peter had lost.

 

The next moment, he was crawling up onto the end of the bed, settling down so that his crossed legs rested over Peter's lower legs and feet (a brief thought was spared for whether it was good for him to do that to Peter or not, but meh, werewolf healing, he decided fairly quickly).

 

“So, it's me again,” he muttered, reaching out to pluck absently at the blanket covering Peter. “Guess you didn't expect to see, or, well, hear, me again, huh?” Peter continued to stare blankly at the ceiling. Heaving a sigh, Stiles flopped sideways (so he was never very good at sitting like a normal person). One of his hands came up to rest against Peter's knee through the blanket.

 

How many times, he wondered, had he sat or lain like that with one of the others (they denied it, but he was certain that physical touch was even more vital to a werewolf's wellbeing than it was for humans), even with Creepy Uncle Peter, sometimes. Just being pack. Reassuring each other that they were there. They were alive.

 

“My mother died yesterday,” he said, “or five years, three months and two days ago. Thereabouts.” He let out a stilted chuckle, pillowing his head on his free arm. “She had cancer. Fought hard. Just... not hard enough to actually win. But maybe, sometimes, it doesn't matter how hard you fight, or what you do, there's just no way you can win, anyway.

 

“And no, I'm not just talking about my mother.” He shifted, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. “Must be boring for you, huh, staring at the ceiling all the time?” he asked. “Do they ever, you know, get you up and change the scenery for you? Can you even see? Or is it just hearing? Or maybe nothing. Maybe it's just like drifting in nothingness. Or are you even aware at all? Was it like sleeping? One moment you were burning and the next, you were awake, and insane?

 

“In some ways,” he continued, “perhaps it's good that I came back now. I mean, it'll give me time to plan, to figure things out, right? Plus, you know, everyone's walking on eggshells around me 'cos of the whole, 'his mother just died' thing. It kinda excuses any weird reactions I might have.

 

“But you're probably not wondering about that. You're wondering about me. About who I am, why I'm here. To be honest, I'm not even really sure why I'm here.” He sighed, giving Peter's knee beneath his hand a gentle squeeze. “I guess, despite everything, in the end, you were pack, too. And with no-one else here, or well, here, but not them, you're the best I've got.

 

“I figure I'm the best you've got, too, huh? Anyway, I'm Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. Yes, it's a nickname. No, I'm not going to tell you my real name. Trust me, you're better off not knowing anyway.” He paused, considering how to say the next bit, before just shrugging and decided to go for it. It wasn't like Peter would be replying, anyway.

 

“I went back in time,” he said. There, it was said. It was out there. He laughed. “I came back in time because everything went to shit.” He shook his head, feeling the blanket rub against his skin through the fuzz of his buzzcut (and, oh yeah, that's right, he'd buzzed his hair when his mom's had started falling out). “In the end,” he explained, licking his lips, “it was just Lydia and me left. Lydia and I,” he corrected, imagining Peter's face at his poor grammar, before shaking his head once more with a fond smile.

 

“Everyone else was dead. Stolen from us one by one, and we were all that was left. So I guess we were a bit desperate. Desperate to change things. To make them better. To do something, anything. And we figured we had nothing to lose.

 

“We found this spell, in an old, cracked book that I swear must have been created centuries ago and was written in the most awful old-english you have ever read. Or maybe not, you always seemed to like old books, so perhaps you have read something worse. I mean, your place was full of books – when I finally got to see it. Still bummed about the fact that you didn't actually live in a system of underground caves because that, that would have been cool.”

 

Pulling his scattered thoughts back, Stiles tried to focus on what he had been saying. “The spell needed an anchor. Someone to stay behind and hold it. And it needed someone to work on. Someone to go through time and change things.

 

“Lydia said she should stay, 'cos, well, she said I would do better at changing things than she would.” He shrugged. “Whatever. We argued, of course, but in the end she got her way. She always does, you know, so, just for future reference, if Lydia wants something, just go along with it.

 

“So we hugged it out beforehand like the total badasses we are – actually, we kinda cried like babies, but – I can't believe I just said that!” he groaned, limbs flailing all over the place as he flung himself upright to stare down at Peter. “Right,” he said. “That never gets repeated. Ever. Lydia and I were totally composed badasses.” Giving a satisfied nod that his catatonic listener understood the importance of what he had said, Stiles flopped back down once more.”

 

“Lydia cast the spell,” he said, “and I woke up staring at the hospital ceiling. For a moment, I thought, perhaps, it was just another time I'd ended up in the hospital. For a moment, I expected them all to be there, you know, waiting for me to wake so they could yell at me for putting myself in danger. And just for reference, while I may have been in danger a lot, I also saved their lives a lot, okay. Like, all the time. So they had no room to talk.” Silence descended on the room as Stiles let his voice drift off.

 

“Somehow,” he said, “I ended up in here last night. Subconscious really. I mean, I don't usually wander around looking for the rooms of coma patients to hang out in. And here I am again. Which much be just thrilling for you, I bet you haven't had such scintillating conversation in years.” Grinning, Stiles rolled onto his side so that he could prop himself up on his elbow and stare at Peter.

 

At that moment, the door to the room opened, a nurse stepping inside. Stiles recognised her vaguely – he recognised most of the hospital staff in one way or another. Things like that happened when you spent all your free time at the hospital for years while your mother slowly lost her fight with cancer.

 

“What?” the nurse gasped out.

 

Grimacing, Stiles pushed himself off the bed, stumbling as he did so. “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, I just.”

 

Her shocked gaze softened, and she sighed. “Needed to talk?” she asked.

 

Stiles paused. He supposed to had. Needed to talk, that is. And being catatonic, Peter wouldn't be sharing his secrets with anyone else. But it was more than that. He shrugged, chewing on his bottom lip as he stared over at her. He wasn't family (that the hospital knew or would recognise), had no reason to be in there.

 

“Sometimes,” the nurse, (Carrie, if Stiles remembered her name right), said, “it's easier to talk to coma patients. You're certainly not the first person to do so. Although,” she admitted, “you are the first person to talk to Peter, here.”

 

Good, Stiles thought, she's given me his name. So now it won't look weird that I know who he is.

 

“I guess the burns put them off,” Carrie continued.

 

Blinking, Stiles glanced back down at Peter. Admittedly, he'd stared at them at first – they were so different to what he remembered of Peter – but he didn't think he'd thought much on them after that.

 

Carrie, Stiles noticed, had brought Peter's dinner with her. “But Stiles,” she added, “there's a fully functional chair in this room.” She indicated the chair sitting in the corner and Stiles nodded – what else could he do? He was just thankful she wasn't going off at him over having been on Peter's bed. 'Cos really, he wasn't sure how he could explain that to someone not in the know.

 

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed, glancing over at the plates she was setting up. “I'm uh, I'm just going to go,” he said.

 

Carrie nodded. “Take care, Stiles,” she said.

 

Nodding, Stiles stepped forward to leave the room. He couldn't help but think that he'd gotten away easy – no doubt because everyone knew about his mother. He'd have to be more careful in future. Then he stopped, spinning on his heel and leaning back over towards Peter.

 

“I'll see you later, Peter,” he said. Carrie smiled softly as she watched him leave.

 

 

Stiles found his father near the front of the hospital, talking softly to Melissa.

 

“Hey kid,” he said when he glanced up and saw Stiles standing there. Staring back at him, Stiles felt a lump growing in his throat. _Great, just great_ , he thought. Seeing his father like that, his father of _before_ , his father of just after... well, Stiles hadn't ever wanted to return this time, the time just after his mother's death.

 

The pain lingered in his father's eyes and around the corners of his mouth. His skin was pale, drawn, and tiredness lingered in his every movement. For a moment, Stiles wondered what he himself looked like. He hadn't looked in a mirror since that first moment after waking up in this time – he hadn't wanted to see himself, see his body, so disconnected from what his brain was telling him he should look like.

 

“Hey Dad,” he replied. Stepped forward, and managing to trip over nothing – which, great, just great, his clumsiness was no less embarrassing or infuriating a second time around (he refused to think of the fact that he had never totally outgrown it, simply learnt to use it to his advantage against whatever they faced).

 

“Well, I'll let you two get home,” Melissa said. She paused as she passed Stiles, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. Stiles nodded at her, wanting to reach out and wrap her into a hug – but, well, that wasn't what he was meant to do in this time. In this time, he'd only just lost his mother, like literally only just lost her. And while he'd already spent many, many days at the McCall's, it hadn't yet reached the epic co-parenting standards that had resulted after Scott's dad (the utter douche), had left.

 

Each of them left with only one parent, they'd fit themselves together even further, holding tight to each other and refusing to let go, dragging their parents along for the ride. Their solid, epic friendship had turned into a brotherhood that not even werewolves or hunters or anything else that had been thrown at them had ever been able to conquer (and yeah, okay, so they totally argued and yelled at each other at times, but that, Stiles figured, was what brothers did, so he wasn't too worried about that).

 

Of course, once Melissa knew about Scott and the werewolves and the epic failure that seemed to follow their lives that came with all that, Stiles had become even closer to her, even as he felt guilty about the fact that his Dad didn't know. Then Dad knew, and he'd been able to accept her comfort and guidance without guilt.

 

Which meant that epic co-parenting turned into Stiles calling Melissa 'Mom', and Scott calling the Sheriff 'Dad'. And neither of them had felt guilty about it then – of course, that was years in the future, or the past, depending on how you looked at it (time travel really wasn't doing Stiles tenses any favours, not even in his own mind).

 

So Stiles simply smiled at Melissa and watched her leave, before turning back to his father.

 

They headed home, and Stiles found himself wracking his memory to see if there was anything he was meant to be doing. Homework, or something. He idly considered texting Scott to find out, but dismissed that idea – Scott, if he remembered right, had enough to deal with with the fact that Scott's father was currently planning to walk out on them (not that Scott knew that yet).

 

Groaning, Stiles rolled over on his bed. Sleep came, and with it his memories surged forward, half-perfection, half-nightmare, and all too real.

 

 

“So, I had a nightmare last night,” Stiles said, pushing open the door to Peter's room and dumping his schoolbag by the wall. Kicking off his shoes, he walked over to the bed, climbing up onto the end so that he could rest against Peter's feet.

 

“Well, nightmares, really,” he continued, shifting until he was comfortable. “Bet you didn't expect that to be my opening line.” He sighed. “Thing is, can you really call them nightmares if they're real? It was back at the house, in the basement.” He paused. “Should I even be talking about this with you?” Then he shrugged. “Eh, I doubt anything I say can make you worse than you were last time – not that you remember last time. Not that anyone remembers last time. Which is possibly a good thing, but it makes it hard, you know. To be the only one who remembers.

 

“But is it really remembering? I mean, I've gone back in time. So, to me it happened. Which means, it's my memories. I remember it. But for you, none of it has happened yet, which means, for you, it's more like prophecy or something. Looking into the future.” Chewing idly on his finger, Stiles gave another shrug. “Whatever, the point is, I had this dream.

 

“I was standing in the middle of the basement, and it was how it looked before we convinced Derek to fix it up. All blackened and shit. Only I wasn't alone. Derek was there, chained up. Kate, the bitch, was also there.” Stiles paused, staring down at his hands.

 

“You know,” he said, “there aren't many people I actively want to kill, but I can honestly say she is one of them. I mean, I'd kill anyone who threatened the pack, no sweat. I've done it before. But Kate, Kate I'd like to hunt down and kill. Make her the prey for once.” Giving himself a shake, Stiles glanced over at Peter.

 

“I wasn't there that time,” he said. “So I suppose it really was a nightmare as opposed to a memory. But Scott described it to me. Scott, who you haven't met yet, but you will – although, this time, let's try and keep the biting to a minimum, huh? Anyway, Scott was the one who got Derek out that time. He told me about it later. About the way they'd had him strung up and the electricity and...” Stiles let his voice trail off, huffing out a breath.

 

“Probably not what I should be telling you,” he said. “Or having you dwell on. So, something happier – happier than me being trapped and watching Kate torture Derek. Happier... right, well, before I had that dream. Nightmare. Whatever. Before that, I had another dream, or memory.

 

“It was in the house after it was all fixed up. After you had come back, and before we all started dying. Everyone was there. You were sitting on the couch with your stupid, extensive clothing and that stupid smirk on your face, like you know more than everyone else. Jackson and Lydia were on the other couch, not cuddling, no, 'cos that would be too plebian for them. But just sitting there, sides resting against each other.

 

“Scott and Allison were lying on the floor, being completely and utterly goopy together, like, you have no idea. Let me tell you, if anything, I will thoroughly enjoy my time with a non-goopy Scott while I have it. Because love turns him into the biggest sap you have ever seen.

 

“Erica was painting her nails, making Boyd hold the nailpolish for her, and Isaac was sprawled out near Scott and Allison, working on his homework. Derek was leaning in the doorway, just watching us all.

 

“I didn't want to wake up,” Stiles admitted. “I liked it there, in that moment. It was so short, so brief, just a moment of normalcy, after everything we'd been through and before it all went to shit. And there I go, being morbid and gloomy again.” Springing to his feet, Stiles moved over to his bag.

 

“I know,” he said, “I've got homework to do, and you, you are a self-professed intelligent person, so you can help me with it. Besides, I figure if anything's going to get you to come out of your coma earlier, it's gotta be listening to me ramble on about trigonometry and butchering the english language as I do so.”

 

Grinning, Stiles turned back to the bed. At that moment, the door opened behind him.

 

“Stiles,” Carrie said, stepping inside.

 

“Uh, hi, Carrie,” he replied, giving her a sheepish smile. “I was just gonna do some homework in here.” Carrie smiled gently at him and Stiles couldn't help but think that she was imagining he'd followed his usual routine after school – biking to the hospital to visit his Mom – only to realise that she was gone and so had wandered until he ended up in Peter's room again.

 

It wasn't exactly true – for all that his mother had just died in this time, for Stiles it had been years. He wasn't in the habit of visiting her in the hospital anymore. But he was in the habit of seeking out other members of the pack to spend time with, so he figured that she was right in thinking that he was simply following habit.

 

Besides, anything that helped to not get him kicked out of Peter's room was good.

 

“All right, Stiles,” Carrie said. “Why don't I get Carl to help me get Peter up and into his chair. That way you can sit across from each other.”

 

Stiles nodded, watching as Carrie and Carl, another of the nurses, transferred Peter to his wheelchair. There went Stiles' plan of curling up on the bed to do his homework. Then again, perhaps that was for the best considering the reaction he was likely to get if anyone saw him like that.

 

Instead, Stiles did what he did best, which was talk, babbling on while Peter was moved, babbling when the nurses left, babbling as he worked on his homework. Through it all, he kept half an eye on Peter, but the other man never moved.

 

Stiles told himself he wasn't disappointed by that – he was two years too early for Peter to wake up – but couldn't help but wish for a pack member who could talk back to him, even if Peter was usually too sassy to handle in large doses (and hey, if Stiles secretly thought Peter's sass was actually incredibly funny, well, no-one had to know).

 

 

A shake to his shoulder woke Stiles later, to see his father leaning over him.

 

“Stiles,” he said. “Stiles, wake up.”

 

Blinking, Stiles shifted in his chair. He looked up to see that Peter was once more in his bed, and night had fallen outside. “I'm up,” he muttered.

 

Stepping back, the Sheriff looked at him with a sigh. “Come on, son,” he said, “let's get you home.”

 

“M'kay,” Stiles agreed with a yawn. He gathered his schoolwork, shoving it back into his bag, before stepping forward to where Peter lay, staring unblinking at the ceiling. Reaching out, Stiles rested his hand on Peter's shoulder for a moment. “I'll see you later, Peter,” he said. Then he followed his father from the room.


	4. how Scott found out about Peter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding a note to say, while I'm ignoring season 3 (for the most part), I may reference some things from 3a (maybe, and only in a minor way, still consider that for this fic, season 3 didn't happen)

 

The rest of the week found Stiles continually ending up at Peter's bedside, or sprawling across the end of it. He took his homework with him, and found that talking to the older man while working on it helped him to focus better.

 

Years of living and dealing with his ADHD had taught him many different coping methods, and provided him with the insight that he had the ability to completely and absolutely focus on something until he had exhausted all possible avenues of research on it. Even if what ended up capturing his fascination and sparking all that research wasn't exactly what he was meant to be working on.

 

Talking to Peter helped him to keep his focus where it was meant to be. Of course, once his homework was done, Stiles would ramble on about his day, what had happened, how many times Lydia had ignored him or Jackson had given him an evil glare or Scott and he had just managed to escape some teacher's wrath.

 

Peter was a good listener. At least, when he was comatose. And Stiles quickly found himself rambling freely and easily, even as he tried to stick to lighter topics – such as the trials and tribulations of being a high school student – and away from anything that might be too depressing or make Peter want revenge even more than he had the first time around.

 

It was friday when Stiles found his rambling discussion with (or rather at) Peter about why schools should follow a less standardised teaching system, interrupted when the Sheriff poked his head around the door once more.

 

“Dad!” Stiles exclaimed, flailing momentarily where he sat in his chair facing Peter (Carrie and Carl would often place Peter in his chair just before Stiles showed up).

 

“Stiles,” his father replied, slipping into the room and looking around as he placed his hands in his pockets. “I got a call from one of the nurses to say that you've been showing up here each day after school.”

 

“Uh, yeah, about that,” Stiles began.

 

The Sheriff held up one hand. “If it helps,” he began, before stopping as he looked over at Peter. He swallowed. “Is that Peter Hale?” he asked.

 

“Ye-ah?” Stiles replied, frowning at the look on his father's face. Sighing, the Sheriff ran his hand over his face, while stepping further into the room.

 

“What's going on Stiles?” he asked. “The nurses seem to think you've been coming here out of habit.” He cringed, as did Stiles. “But they're concerned by the fact that you've kept coming. Also,” he added, “they're not sure they should keep letting you in to see Peter like this when you don't know him.”

 

This was something Stiles had thought of. “I can volunteer!” he said.

 

His father blinked. “Wha- Stiles?”

 

“I can volunteer. I mean, hospitals have volunteers, right? People who come and spend time with long-term patients? To help them, visit them, all that.” He waved one hand in the air to illustrate his point. “Especially those who don't have much family left to do that for them. I'm pretty sure Peter fits into all those categories, really, and -”

 

“Are you basing this plan on an episode of _Smallville_?” his father asked.

 

“Maybe?” Stiles replied. So he'd been watching that episode of Smallville the other day, where Clark ends up volunteering at some place with old people in it and a creepy old woman tells his fortune (don't ask Stiles for anymore details than that – he was multi-tasking at the time, but he caught the basic gist of it).

 

The Sheriff sighed. “I saw the books,” he said.

 

The books, right. “I got some books on comas,” Stiles explained to Peter, reaching out to pat his hand. “You know me, I have to know everything about everything, right. Or at least, everything about things that interest me. And really, there's no way I can keep coming to visit you without reading up on comas. All the comas. All the variations. Everything. Did you know that -”

 

“Stiles,” his father cut him off. Then he sighed, stepping forward and reaching out to take Peter's hand himself. Stiles raised an eyebrow (something he had, admittedly, practiced in order to be able to do so, but he figured that, considering Derek was able to have entire conversations with his eyebrows, Stiles' single eyebrow trick was well worth it). “You're not just coming here out of habit any more, are you?” The Sheriff asked.

 

Stiles shrugged, glancing down. He didn't want to lie to his father, had always hated it. “I spoke to Carrie,” he said. “Did you know that Peter's only got two living family members left? And that they don't visit that often? Maybe once every couple months. Sometimes less.” He shrugged. “I figured he could use someone visiting him. Besides, he is a good listener.”

 

“That he is,” the Sheriff agreed. “We were friends, you know.” And No. Stiles had _not_ known that.

 

“What?” he asked, limbs flailing all over the place once more. “You knew Peter?”

 

“Yeah,” the Sheriff replied. He sighed. “I used to come here to visit him,” he said.

 

“You – but -” Stiles flailed again, before carefully sitting on his hands to try and keep them under control (pointedly ignoring his father's snort at his actions). “How did I not know this?” he asked.

 

The Sheriff shrugged. “I usually came when you were off at school or hanging out with Scott. I never thought it was something you'd be all that interested in tagging along for, honestly. Back before the fire,” he said, “Peter and I would meet up maybe every couple of weeks. We weren't as close as you and Scott, but we got along okay.” He sighed. “When your,” his voice broke and he had to clear his throat. Stiles pretended not to see the tears in his father's eyes. “When your mother got sick, it took up all my time, looking after you and her and... I guess somewhere along the way I just stopped coming here. Not that I ever did much good, just sitting in the room – I could never talk the way you can.” Stiles shrugged in reply to that.

 

“Still,” the Sheriff continued, giving Peter's hand a squeeze. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Peter, I shouldn't have stopped coming.” He paused, and when he continued, his voice was raw and Stiles had the feeling that perhaps his father had forgotten he was there for a moment. “I guess I didn't want to see you stuck in here and think that that could, was, happening to my wife as well.”

 

Stiles swallowed back the tears.

 

“But Stiles sometimes has some good ideas,” he said. He looked over at Stiles. “I'll talk to Carrie, see if I can get you visiting privileges. Myself, too, I guess. After all, if things had been different, you may have been calling him Uncle Peter by now.” He gave Peter's hand another squeeze, before stepping back and heading out of the room.

 

Stiles gaped after him for a moment, _Uncle Peter?!_ , before surging to his feet, tripping over the air, shooting Peter a glare to inform him _not_ to laugh at that, and poking his head around the door to yell to her father where he was walking down the corridor.

 

“Don't forget the volunteer angle!” he called.

 

 

“Dude!” Scott exclaimed, slamming his textbook down on the desk in front of Stiles, “I haven't seen you in, like, a week and a half!”

 

Stiles blinked, staring up at his friend. “You've seen me at school every day,” he said.

 

“Yeah,” Scott agreed, “but not after school. We usually hang out.” He paused, biting his lip, anger fading from his eyes to be replaced with concern. “I mean, I, I get it. Your Mom -” cutting himself off, Scott cleared his throat. “But Stiles, you can't just cut everyone out. I'm your friend. Your best friend. I care about you, okay. And, and we don't even have to talk about it or anything. But, I'm there for you, for, whatever you need. Just, let me in.”

 

Looking up at the earnest look on Scott's face, Stiles found himself nodding without thought. “Sure, sure, Scott,” he said. He'd forgotten, for a bit there, that this Scott hadn't gone through the Allison and then pack weaning process – which is to stay, this Scott really only had Stiles, just as Stiles – in this time – really only had Scott. So Scott wasn't used to Stiles not turning to him (not that Stiles ever stopped turning to him in the future, just that, well, there were more people he could turn to, and more people who needed Scott's time, too).

 

So, that was how Scott found out about Peter.

 

 

“Hey Peter,” Stiles called, stepping into the room. “I brought you a visitor!” He smiled brightly over at where Peter was lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. “This is Scott,” he explained, tugging Scott into the room after him. “I told you about him, remember? My crazy brother?”

 

Scott shot Stiles a startled and pleased look, but Stiles was focused on Peter. “Anyway,” he continued. “I figured it was time you two met. So, Peter, Scott. Scott, Peter.” As usual, Stiles' words were accompanied by a great deal of arm movements.

 

“Dude, what's wrong with him?” Scott asked. Frowning, Stiles shot Scott a glare.

 

“There's nothing _wrong_ with him,” he replied (which, okay, yeah, there may be – if this Peter is just as mad as the last one, but Stiles is really hoping not). “He's just been injured.”

 

“How?”

 

Stiles paused, then shrugged. He figured he couldn't keep ignoring the elephant in the room the whole time. Peter was just going to have to deal with the memories sometime. “Remember the fire at the Hale place?” he asked.

 

Scott gaped at him. “You mean -?”

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. He climbed up onto the end of Peter's bed, giving the older man's leg a pat. “Peter survived.”

 

“Are you sure you should be doing that?” Scott asked, indicating where Stiles was getting himself comfortably situated.

 

“Sure,” Stiles replied with a shrug. “I have it on good authority that physical contact can be very beneficial for coma patients.”

 

“You went on another researching spree, didn't you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay.”

 

And that was that. Within moments, Scott had climbed up onto the bed beside Stiles, jostling him lightly as he did so. Stiles beamed. Peter didn't react. But, a couple of hours later, Melissa was quite pleased to realise they'd both finished all their homework.

 

 

It became a routine after that. Or rather, Stiles' routine adjusted to allow for Scott as well. Scott didn't come every day after school, but he came fairly often, and if he wasn't there then Stiles would tell Peter what Scott was up to, before leaving when he was kicked out to go hang with Scott anyway and tell him about Peter (there wasn't much to tell yet, but Stiles was still hopeful).

 

A week later, things changed.

 

 

Banging open the door of the hospital room, Scott barged in. Glancing up, Stiles felt his mouth drop open, highlighter falling from between his lips.

 

“Scott?” he asked.

 

Pacing by the bed, Scott clenched and unclenched his fists, before rubbing his hands vigourously through his hair and scowling hard.

 

“I hate him,” he said.

 

Stiles made a flaily movement to encourage his best friend to keep going.

 

“My father,” Scott explained, “I hate him.” And oh, yeah. For a bit there, Stiles had forgotten all about Scott's father and the fact that he would be leaving soon. Most likely had just left.

 

“What happened?” he asked.

 

“He's gone,” Scott said. Turning to face the bed, Scott found his eyes drawn to Peter's face, tracing over the scars there. Things were still too raw for him to look directly at Stiles, but looking at Peter, he could do that. After all, it wasn't like Peter was actually going to look back. “Just gone,” he continued. “Mom found all his stuff missing this morning when she got up after her night shift last night. Just... gone. No note. No warning, he just...

 

“He didn't even say goodbye!” he exploded, throwing his hands up in the air. “I mean, he wasn't exactly the greatest dad ever – he was never there, so I suppose in many ways, nothing's changed, but... he didn't even say goodbye.” Slouching forward, Scott slunk over to the bed, where he crawled up to lean against Peter's side. Stiles shifted, making room.

 

“What am I supposed to do now?” Scott asked softly. “Mom's been crying all day. Her eyes are red and she just, she looks so miserable.”

 

Reaching out, Stiles wrapped his arm around his best friend's shoulders. He didn't say anything. What could he say? We'll get through this? Your dad's a douche anyway and Melissa can do so much better? I'm here for you? Sometimes, words just weren't enough.

 

Leaning over, Scott rested his face against Stiles' shoulder. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't be ranting, I mean, you just lost your...” his voice trailed off.

 

Stiles shrugged. “So both our lives are kinda shit right now,” he said. “My pain doesn't stop yours and it's not a competition, Scott. It's okay for you to be upset. Besides, that's what I'm here for, right?” He bumped Scott's shoulder with his own.

 

“Right,” Scott agreed, bumping back.

 

 

After that, Scott became a more permanent fixture in Peter's room. Stiles didn't ask, and Scott didn't offer, but Stiles figured that Scott was able to talk to Peter about things, just as Stiles found himself telling Peter things.

 

“I'd forgotten about Scott's dad,” he told Peter, while smoothing out the covers on the bed. “Pretty stupid, huh. You'd think something like that would be better fixed in my memory. But,” he shrugged, “I forgot. I guess, I'm so used now, or was used, will be used?” he gave Peter a quizzical look before shrugging once more as he gave up on his tenses, “to Scott's dad just not being around.” He sighed. “They get a divorce, you know. So, you and me, we're going to have to be ready for that. The fallout.

 

“Melissa will be upset for a while, which will upset Scott, but, in the end, I think it was best for them. Scott's dad was, is, a Grade-A douche. And without any redeemable qualities at all. Unlike Jackson, who is a douche but surprisingly willing to sacrifice for those he considers friends – even if he does complain about it the entire time and always claims he isn't going to, or wonders why he should, or whatever. My advice, just ignore him when he gets like that. It isn't worth listening to, and he will end up coming through for you in the end.”

 

Stepping back from the bed, Stiles glanced up as his father came into the room.

 

“Hey Stiles,” he said.

 

“Hey Dad. S'up?”

 

Shaking his head, the Sheriff moved over to the single chair in the room, dragging it closer to the bed and sitting in it. “Just thought I'd come visit Peter for a bit.” Then he proceeded to sit down and just stare at Peter.

 

“Ri-ight,” Stiles agreed. Giving up on his neatening of Peter's sheets, Stiles slipped back up onto the bed, which got him a rather strange look from his father. Stiles shrugged. “What?” he asked, “you took the only chair.”

 

“You could always -” the Sheriff began, before shrugging and waving one hand, as though to tell Stiles to do whatever he wanted to. Stiles beamed at him.

 

“So,” he asked, after another uncomfortable silence. “How was work?”

 

His father gave him a suspicious look. “Why?” he asked.

 

“Can't a son ask about his father's day at work now?” Stiles asked. He turned to Peter. “Can you believe this guy? I ask how his day was and he gets all suspicious of me.”

 

“Some fathers,” the Sheriff replied, “have nosy sons who are always up to something when they ask about work.”

 

“Now see, that, right there, that's unfair. What if I just wanted to know how your day was? Being a concerned son and all.”

 

“Then you would have asked about my day and not my work.”

 

Stiles shrugged. “So, work's more interesting than just asking about your day?” he suggested. Sighing, the Sheriff leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

 

“I swear,” he told Peter, “he just gets worse every year. Remember when all my stories about Stiles were about him eating dirt and worms and running around with bedsheets pretending he was a super hero?”

 

Stiles gaped at his face. “What?!” he screeched. “What? You – I can't believe you – Oh, that explains so much!” He snapped his mouth shut, before he said anything else, but suddenly a few of Peter's pointed comments in the future made so much more sense.

 

His father gave him an amused look before turning back to Peter. “Sometimes,” he confided, “I wish for those days. These days, he knows how to read, and open doors by himself, and pick locks,” he shot Stiles a look at that, while Stiles practiced his innocent face. The narrowing of his father's eyes suggested that it still needed some work. “Then again,” his father added. “I kinda like who he is now.” A pause. “And he still does the bedsheet thing.”

 

“I do not!”

 

In response, the Sheriff rolled his eyes, before starting in on a series of embarrassing stories, all staring Stiles. Stiles kept interjecting, trying to assure Peter that really, that wasn't how it had happened, and it really hadn't been that bad. He didn't think he was succeeding that well in assuring Peter of any of that, but he had to try.

 

When it was time to leave, Stiles leant over, giving Peter a hug, before bouncing up with a, “See you later, Creepy Uncle Peter.”

 

“Stiles!” his father said, but it was only half warning, half fond exasperation. Reaching over, he gave Peter's shoulder a squeeze, before following Stiles from the room.

 

 

In the darkness, Peter stretched, paws scratching against the nothingness around him. He breathed in deeply, drawing in scents that had quickly become familiar. Around him, he was aware of a gentle warmth growing and retreating and then growing again. It wasn't always there, and it wasn't always the same, but it always returned. In his thoughts, a single word whispered, hesitant and unsure, _Pack?_


	5. something else to look at

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles decides that Peter's room needs decorating

Looking up from where he was sorting through a number of boxes, Stiles smiled over at his father as he entered the room. Nodding to his son, the Sheriff moved away into the house to dump (secure) his gun, before returning with a frown.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

 

Grinning, Stiles motioned towards the items spread out around him. “I thought I'd go through some of the stuff in the attic,” he said.

 

The Sheriff blinked. “Really?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

 

Stiles shrugged. “Yeah,” he agreed.

 

“Mmmhmmm. Funny thing, but everything strange and weird you've done lately has centered around Peter Hale.”

 

Studiously ignoring his father, Stiles kept sifting through his current box.

 

“Which suggests to me,” the Sheriff continued, “that this is going to be about him in some way, too.”

 

“Okay, fine!” Stiles said, throwing his hands up in the air. “I thought, perhaps, I could find some things to help make his room a little more comfortable, welcoming, you know? 'Cos right now, there is like, nothing personal in there.”

 

“Hmm,” his father agreed, with a thoughtful nod. “Sure,” he said, “take whatever you want.”

 

Stiles glanced up with a bright grin. “Thanks, Dad!”

 

“However,” his father continued, “you may want to consider looking at the things that were in Peter's office.”  
  


“What?”

 

“His office. Peter kept an office in town. After, well, after the fire, it was packed up and put into storage.”

 

Stiles blinked, staring up at his father. “Seriously?” he asked, “how did I not know this?”

 

The Sheriff gave him an amused and slightly sad look. “It's not like we ever really talked about Peter in the past.”

 

“Do you think we'd be able to get Peter's stuff?” Stiles asked. “I mean, aren't there laws about who can access it or something?”

 

The Sheriff sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “But it's been years. Much longer without being claimed, and Peter's stuff will be absorbed by the state.” Stiles grimaced at that and his father nodded in agreement. “So, I'm pretty sure I can swing getting some of the stuff out for Peter. 'Course it would be better if we could get his family to sign for it.”

 

“His family?” Stiles asked. “You mean Derek?”

 

“And Laura,” his added, giving Stiles another look. “But that's unlikely to happen.”  
  


“Why? Can't you just, I dunno, call them or something?”

 

The Sheriff shook his head. “They ran,” he said. “Just up and left Beacon Hills after the fire.” Stiles frowned, he knew that. Knew that Laura and Derek had left, but the way that his father was speaking about it...

  
“What do you mean ran?” he asked.

 

Sighing, the Sheriff moved over to sit down on the ground by Stiles, reaching out to wrap his arm around his shoulders. “Peter was injured,” he said, “and even then, his prognosis wasn't that great. Frankly, the doctors were amazed that he survived the first night, let alone all the years since.” Stiles swallowed. His mind flashed, suddenly, to the image of Peter burning, lit on fire by a molotov cocktail thrown by Stiles. He shuddered, pressing up against his father, and wondering if that was how Peter had looked after the fire. Guilt gnawed at his gut, but he pushed it aside with the ease of years of practice. He'd done what he had to do. That was what he always did.

 

“Laura was seventeen,” his father continued, “just shy of eighteen, but not quite there yet. Derek had just turned sixteen.” Stiles swallowed. He'd known, he'd always known just how young Derek had been, but it wasn't something he usually thought about. “No-one said it outright, but it was understood that there was a chance they would be split up.” Stiles turned to stare at his father. The Sheriff shrugged in response. “With Laura being underage, whether or not she would be able to get emancipated or get custody of Derek if she did – or whether he would be able to be emancipated as well – was up in the air. They ran.” He sighed, scrubbing one hand through his hair. “I would have fought for them,” he said. “Fought to get Laura emancipated and set up as Derek's guardian. It was likley she would have been emancipated – it was only a couple of months before her birthday. But I guess they thought they couldn't take the chance. Not when it was possible Derek would be placed elsewhere. It sucks, but that's the way it is.”

 

Stiles swallowed, imagining a young Laura and Derek. Heck, he'd never realised that Laura was that young. That she hadn't even been eighteen when it all happened. He could imagine their fright and pain and fear. Their family, their pack, had just burned to death. The only surviving member of their family other than themselves was in a coma. Slated to die by all the doctors that looked at him (Stiles supposed they had werewolf healing to be thankful for the fact that Peter was still breathing). While no-one had ever explicitly said it, Stiles had gotten the impression over the years that pack was more than just a group of people. He'd felt the pack bonds himself. Felt the pain as they were torn away one by one as the others died.

 

To have felt that in one go, as almost their entire pack was killed, and then to be faced with possibly being split up. Well, Stiles could understand why they ran.

 

“You haven't heard from them since?” he asked. Stiles wondered how much Derek and Laura (and wasn't that a strange thought – that Laura was still alive) knew about Peter. Whether they still kept in contact with him.

 

“No,” the Sheriff replied, before, pushing himself to his feet. “Well, I'll get started on dinner, I suppose.” He smiled, but it did nothing to stop the pang Stiles felt. He remembered this from the first time around. The way his father had tried so hard after his mother died to keep their small family running. The burnt dinners, and tiredness, until Stiles had decided one day to do the cooking himself. No time like the present to start, either.

 

“Nah, I'll do it,” he said.

 

“Really?”

 

“Sure. Good life skills knowing how to cook and all that,” he added, realising that he needed to say something more. That there was still a part of his father that was suspicious about his actions recently (no matter how many of them had been excused due to grief). And wasn't that a punch in the gut, to think that, second time round and he still couldn't keep his father from being suspicious.

 

Still, there was a difference in the way his father looked at him to the way he had looked last time. Last time (or in the future, whatever), his father had looked at him with the knowledge that Stiles was lying, and lying to cover up things that put him in danger. He hadn't wanted Stiles doing what he was. This time, well, this time it was like he was still unsure about Stiles' motives – but he had no qualms about the results. His father was pleased with what he was doing.

 

At least until Stiles mentioned his plans for dinner.

 

“Salad?” the Sheriff asked.

 

“Sure,” Stiles agreed. “We've gotta keep you healthy, you know.” He grinned, relishing in the familiar banter. His father's face quickly reminded him that it wasn't familiar – not yet. In this time, his father had yet to be put on a diet by his doctor (one that Stiles strictly enforced). There wasn't any reason for Stiles to be worried yet – and so it confused his father.

 

Well, he thought with a shrug, maybe he could prevent his dad's health from getting bad enough that the doctor felt the need to intervene (he ignored the fact that, at his next checkup, his father's health had been fine – the fear had never quite left him, and, well, everyone had coping mechanisms, didn't they?)

 

 

“So, I raided your office,” Stiles said cheerfully as he pushed his way into Peter's room, arms full with a large cardboard box. He glanced at the empty bed and space near it where Peter usually sat, frowning, before jumping into the air with a cry and juggling the box in his arms when he noticed Peter, in his chair, situated on the other side of the room.

 

“Fu-flip!” he exclaimed, giving the werewolf a glare. “Seriously,” he complained, “you're catatonic, how do you still manage to be creepy and almost give me heart attacks?” Moving over, he dumped the box down onto the bed.

 

“So,” he said, “as I was saying – before you scared me half to death, which, not nice, dude. Not nice at all. You should work on that – I raided your office. I was going through some stuff at home, stuff we don't really use any more. I thought, maybe, you'd like something a bit more interesting in here than white walls.” He glanced around at the bare room. There was a bed with a couple of bedside tables, and a chest of draws. That was it. “I know I'd go insane just having to look at white walls every day.”

 

Flipping open the flaps on the box, Stiles started to pull some knick knacks out, frowning as he stared down at them. “So, I don't really know what this is,” he said, holding a twisted bit of metal up to the light and turning it from side to side. “Perhaps some kind of modern art?” It looked like someone had taken a long piece of metal and twisted it around and through itself while it was still hot and mouldable. “You're probably the kind of guy who actually likes modern art.”

 

Moving over, Stiles placed it on the top of the chest of drawers, reaching out as he passed, to rub his hand against Peter's shoulder and arm.

 

“Anyway, Dad found me going through things at home and suggested I try your office. Well, not your actual office – they packed that up years ago – but they kept everything from it, in storage. So Dad managed to get me permission to go in and find some things for you.

 

“And man – it was like a treasure trove in there! And seriously, do you, like, have enough books? 'Cos I'm not even sure the library has that many. Okay,” he added generously, “in truth, I'm sure the library has more than you, but not by much. Was your office just, like, your own private library? I thought you were more into the whole technology thing – considering the shit you gave Derek about that precious laptop of yours and being modern.” He grinned, digging back into the box and coming out with a large photo frame.

 

Pausing, Stiles stared down at it. “I wish you could talk,” he said, “could tell me who everyone is in here.” Pushing away from the bed, he moved over to where Peter was sitting. Biting his lip, Stiles stared down at the older man. “Okay,” he muttered, “let's just hope this doesn't set you off, yeah? Just in case...”

 

Let his voice trail off, Stiles awkwardly climbed into Peter's lap. “This is why I haven't done this before,” he explained, gripping the arms of the chair tightly to stop himself from falling off. “Your lap is hardly large enough, and if someone were to walk through that door it'd look even worse than the bed thing.” Grimacing, Stiles shifted his legs, letting his knees slip to either side of Peter's legs and tightening them so that he wouldn't slide off.

 

“For clarification,” he continued, “in case anyone ever asks, I'm doing this to try and help stop your insanity. 'Cos that was not fun, dude, and honestly, you were so much more fun once you got over most of it. So, completely innocent, manly, embracing going on here.” Leaning forward, Stiles rested against Peter's chest, tucking his his head up under Peter's chin. He laughed softly.

 

“Man, I feel like I'm hugging my Dad, or something,” he said, smile turning slightly wistful. “I wonder if we would have ever done something like this if things had been different,” he murmured, “considering you really are Uncle Peter and all?” Shifting, he let his hand come up, holding the photo in front of Peter's face.

 

“I found this in your office,” he said. “Figured it would give you something else to look at.” Turning so that he could look at the photo as well, Stiles sighed, breath puffing against Peter's skin. “I know some of them, of course,” he said, “and I can guess others. But, well, in the future – where I was before I ended up back here, which I'm still trying to figure out why now and not some other time, anyway – there weren't really many photos around. I wonder what happened to this one back then... Dad suggested that if we didn't do anything with your stuff soon it would go to the state, maybe that's what happened.” He grimaced. “So let's do something with it, huh.”

 

Reaching out carefully with his other hand, Stiles traced over the faces in the photo, glass cool against his fingers. It was the entire Hale family – or who Stiles assumed was the entire Hale family. They were standing in front of the house – not burnt and broken as he remembered it, but whole and bright and alive in a way that made his chest hurt.

 

“So, this is you,” Stiles said, tapping against Peter's face. He grinned, “I bet you were just as vain then as you've always been – will be – whatever.” He moved his finger. “Derek I know, of course. But, man, it's just weird seeing him so young!” Derek's face was younger, stubble-less and more open than Stiles had ever seen it, even when he'd seen the soft looks Derek would send the pack when he thought they weren't looking. “And I'm guessing this is Laura,” he continued, finger moving over glossy brown hair. She was slightly older than Derek, standing angled so that her shoulder was before his – it was a stance Stiles had seen often. One wolf placing themself slightly before another as protection.

 

“I'm not sure about these two,” he continued, tapping against the faces of two older-looking young men. They looked just old enough to be out of school, and similar enough to Derek and Laura to possibly be their siblings. Or cousins. Stiles wasn't sure just how everyone in the Hale family had been related other than pack.

 

“Are they brothers? Cousins?” he murmured out loud. The oldest-looking one had black hair like Derek, but blue eyes like Peter. The younger one (but not by much), had Laura's glossy brown hair, but Derek's stormy green eyes (Stiles snorted in his own mind to hear himself calling Derek's eyes stormy, he wasn't some teenage girl).

 

Moving on, Stiles motioned to the woman in the middle. “Talia, I guess,” he said. “She just has that look, you know, Alpha.” She stood tall and proud, in front of all the others as though ready to protect them all. She shared Derek's eyes and Laura's hair. Beside and slightly behind her was a man, wearing glasses and with Derek's dark hair. “And this must be Derek's Dad. Huh,” Stiles murmured, “I don't actually know his name.”

 

His finger traced back to where Peter stood, passing over him in favour of the woman beside him. “Were you married?” he asked, feeling a lump rising in his throat. “Did you lose her?” His finger tapped on the young girl, no more than two, more likely one, held in the woman's arms. “And her? Your daughter? Niece?” An older woman, hair turning from grey to white. “Mother?” The kids scattered around them, ranging from about four up to ten. “Kids?” He sighed, pressing his body more firmly against Peter's.

 

“I bet you miss them,” he said. “I bet you miss them lots.” He paused, before letting his breath out in a gust, as though releasing something from inside him. “I miss her,” he said. “Well, I miss all of them, you know, the pack.” He sighed. “But it feels like I shouldn't – 'cos they're all still alive in this time. But Mom – she's only just died, even though it feels like years to me. It was years,” he admitted, “and it never stopped hurting. I just learnt to live with it.

 

“I went to her funeral, you know – again.” He swallowed. “Maybe I should have told you about it at the time, but... I guess I just couldn't. It made it real somehow, you know, like she'd died all over again or something.” Blinking back tears, Stiles reached up his hand to scrub angrily at them. “I'm glad I went,” he said, “even if it made it too real, too close, all over again. 'Cos it meant I could say goodby, you know? Scott went with me, and Dad, and Scott's Mom... I thought Dad was going to squeeze my hand off at one stage, and, let me tell you, there was definitely some very manly crying going on.

 

“But still, I'm glad I got to say goodbye – again. Did you ever get to do that? I'm guessing not. What with the whole coma and insanity and then dying and coming back to life thing.” He shrugged. “So, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to tap against each person in this photo, one by one, and as I do, you say goodbye to them, okay?

 

“I know it's not perfect, but it's all we've got, for now. And later, when you're better, and all, we'll hold a proper memorial for them, okay? Okay,” he said nodding to himself. Moving his finger slowly, Stiles tapped against the faces in the photo one by one, his heart constricting at the number of taps that were needed. He hesitated by Derek and Laura's faces.

 

“They're not dead,” he said. “So I'm not sure if you need to say goodbye to them or not.” Shrugging, Stiles tapped two more times, but keeping his pause shorter.

 

 

Mind humming contentedly, Peter wished he could stretch properly, press back against the warmth, the pack, pressed against him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, life is busy, which means updates likely won't be coming every day, but I will try and keep them coming every few days.
> 
> Also, I promise that, soon, more of the pack will feature! I have many, many plans and notes on how they will be included in the fic.
> 
> (and, if anyone was wondering, I didn't include Cora in the photo because I'm still not sure I want her to be included in this fic... considering I'm pretty much ignoring season 3, I don't feel too bad leaving her out, and while I don't dislike her, I was never happy with the whole 'oh wait, they're not all dead, Derek's younger sister is alive, but with no explanation as to how' - I just thought it was too unrealistic - if that's explained in 3b, well, I haven't seen that yet)


	6. this is Laura Hale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: for brief, canon-compliant references to abuse

Dashing into Peter's room a week later – racing Scott – Stiles laughed freely. A few nearby nurses smiled, watching the boys rush past.

 

“Woah!” the nurse inside Peter's room called out as Stiles managed to trip over his own feet while spinning himself around the door. Arms flailing widely, he let his schoolbag drop onto the floor as he hop-skipped to try and keep his balance. Puffing and wheezing behind him, Scott laughed. Rolling his eyes at his friend, Stiles stuck his nose up in the air (once he gained his balance of course), and strode over towards Peter.

 

“Hey Carrie,” he said, nodding to the nurse.

 

“Boys,” Carrie replied.

 

Grabbing the only chair in the room, Scott dragged it over towards the bed, before flopping down into it. “You're going to kill me one day,” he said, grinning over at Stiles.

 

From where he was, reaching over the bed to clasp Peter's hand in greeting, Stiles froze. His heart pounded and he wondered if Peter could hear it. Could smell the wash of panic and guilt that flooded him. He swallowed hard. “Yeah, sure,” he said, trying for light. It mustn't have worked properly as Scott shot him a confused look.

 

“So, Carrie,” Stiles said, turning to look at her and fishing for another conversation topic – any topic, “what are you doing for Peter today? Sheet change? Scenery change? Company?”

 

“You seem to have those last two covered,” Carrie teased. She shook her head. “It's the first Tuesday of the month.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, the first Tuesday of every month, Peter's niece and nephew ring.”

 

Freezing for the second time in only moments, Stiles stilled his smoothing down of Peter's sheets (he liked to fiddle, okay, so what if the sheets had already been smooth before he entered?) “What?” he asked. “Derek and Laura?”

 

“Laura and Derek, yes,” Carried replied. And oh, Stiles realised, he always said it that way, Derek and Laura – because that was how he knew them. Laura as an extension of Derek. But everyone else said it the other way around, Laura and Derek, because Laura was the oldest. Should he change the way he said their names? Did anyone even notice? And if they did, was it suspicious? Shaking off those thoughts before they could derail him even more, Stiles focused back on the conversation.

 

“Every first Tuesday?” he asked.

  
Carrie nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “They try to call at least once a week.” And _how_ had Stiles missed that with all his visits? How had that never come up in conversation in the past, future, whatever? “They always ask for updates on Peter,” Carrie continued, “and ask to be able to just listen to him breathing.” She made a confused but indulgent face at that. Stiles blinked – of course they would ask for that, he thought.

 

“So, what, do they talk a lot?” Stiles asked.

 

Carrie gave a sad smile. “They can't,” she said. “We don't have enough staff to tie someone up with long phonecalls.”

 

Stiles gaped. “But – but don't they pay you all this money to look after Peter?”

 

“Oh Sweetie,” Carrie replied, “Peter's here on state money.”

 

“What?” There were far too many things Stiles was finding out in this second go round that he had never known. 'But Derek drives a camaro!' he wanted to burst out with. He hoped the wind didn't change anytime soon or he'd be stuck with his face in a state of permanent shock.

 

“The Hales were rich, yes,” Carrie said, “but they say Laura and Derek took off before things could get settled – they were too young, see, and there was a chance they would have been put in the system and split up. Then there was some strange thing with the insurance from the fire. It's all tied up and hasn't come through yet. So, the state pays for us to keep Peter here.” She shrugged. “It sucks, but it's the way it is.”

 

“But they're – they're older now,” Stiles said, “surely they could get the money now?”

 

“I don't know,” Carrie replied. “That's not my area. All I know is that they call once a week – randomly – like they're worried about anyone finding out when they're going to call, and ask about their Uncle. Then, first Tuesday of every month, they call in the afternoon and we try and get them a chance to listen to him and maybe speak for a minute or two, but that's all we can offer. I wish we could do more.”

 

“We can,” Scott said. Stiles glanced over at his brother, before grinning as he realised what Scott was getting at.

 

“He's right, we can,” Stiles agreed. “You may not be able to, but Scott and I were just going to hang out here doing homework for the next little bit anyway. We can totally look after a longer phone call.”

 

“Good,” Carrie said, smiling broadly at them. “You are wonderful kids, you know that.”

 

Stiles shared a glance with Scott – that wasn't something they were used to being called. Troublemakers, horrors, grey-hair causers, and 'special' children, yes, wonderful, not as much.

 

“Here,” Carrie continued, handing over the phone. “If anyone else calls first, just ask them to hold and grab one of the staff.”

 

“Sure,” Stiles agreed, accepting the phone from her. It felt large and heavy in his hand, far more weighty than its light plastic and metal. Derek was going to call on this phone. Derek, who he'd watched die. Derek who he'd spent so long with, gone through so much with and for. Derek, who didn't even know who he was.

 

“So,” said Scott, pulling out his schoolbooks, “what did you want to start with.” Because, of course, Scott didn't realise just what that phone meant to Stiles – how could he, Stiles hadn't explained any of it to him.

 

Nodding, Stiles carefully placed the phone next to him on the bed, before climbing up to sit on the end, dragging his bag with him. “Whatever you like,” he replied. Because really, he doubted he'd be able to pay much attention to anything.

 

-

 

They'd finished their English, Math and Social Studies homework before the phone rang. Jumping, Stiles simply stared down at it. Chances were, Derek was on the other end of that line. He swallowed, trying to force himself to reach out and pick it up.

 

“Dude,” Scott said, “are you going to answer that?”

 

Nodding, Stiles lunged forward, suddenly eager to do so. Ignoring Scott's confused and enquiring face (and yet glad that he was there, or else it was entirely possible that, should Stiles pick up and have Derek on the phone, he would simply blurt the whole thing out to him, time travel and all – and while he loves Derek, he really does, that's not the kind of thing that he can see Derek taking in stride let alone believing him on, so he probably shouldn't do that).

 

“Hello?” Stiles said.

 

“Hi, this is Laura Hale,” said a bright, cheerful voice, and Stiles found his stomach clenching for an entirely different reason. Because this was Laura – he was listening to Laura!

 

“Uh, hey,” he said.

 

“Who is this?” she asked.

 

“Oh. Oh, right,” Stiles replied. “Sorry. Sorry, I just...” Scrubbing one hand through his hair, he tried again. “My name's Stiles. I volunteer at the hospital, you know, spending time with long-term patients.” Scott made a face, but Stiles waved his hand – what did Scott know, anyway, the volunteer thing was totally why they were still allowed to visit. “Carrie, the nurse? She said that you would most likely be calling, but normally she can't leave you on the phone long, 'cos, you know, lot's to do. So, Scott and I – uh, Scott volunteers with me, too. Anyway, we thought, maybe we could answer instead and that way, as we don't have to rush off and change bedsheets or bedpans or... and really, wouldn't that just be the worst part of the job, the bedpans, I mean? Because...” his voice trailed off as Scott made a cutting motion, before waving his hands frantically, letting Stiles know he'd started rambling.

 

“Right, sorry,” he tried again. “So here I am, answering the phone!”

 

“You volunteer to spend time with Peter?” Laura asked.

 

“Yes?” Stiles asked back.

 

“Why?”

 

“Oh, well, you know, it's, he's...” Stiles waved his hands around, almost braining himself with the phone before bringing it back to his ear. “It helps,” he said, deciding on honesty, and the version of events that everyone at the hospital would be familiar with. “My Mom just died, and I was in the hospital, and somehow, I ended up in Peter's room. I just... I just started talking to him, and it helped. And, I guess, since then, I've just kept coming back. Then, Dad said that he knew Peter back, before, you know. And really, something like that – why didn't he ever tell me! I could have been visiting for years! But no, the fact that, had the fire not happened, I would possibly have been calling him Uncle Peter by now was totally glossed over, and... 

 

“Oh, right, that was pretty insensitive, huh, mentioning the fire like that. Sorry. But, well, Scott and I kinda hang out here now. Doing homework, talking, you know.”

 

“Peter can be reassuring,” Laura agreed. And Stiles wanted to scoff, and to ask her which Peter she was talking about, because the Peter he knew – full of sass and creepy and really, there was that whole insane period of his life, too, well, he wasn't sure that he would have ever labeled that Peter as reassuring. Then again, he now knew a different Peter. One who, admittedly, was silent because he had to be, but he was certainly reassuring. He wondered just how much the fire had changed him. He hoped the sass had always been there, because really, someone who got Stiles humour – that was needed in life.

 

“Yeah,” he said simply.

 

“How is he?” Laura asked.

 

“Peter?”

 

“Yes,” there was laughter in her voice, Stiles was sure of it.

 

So he poked his tongue out at her as he answered. “Oh, you know,” he said, “same as usual. He spends a lot of time lying around, lazy sod. Then sometimes, he'll sit in his chair. There's a window in the room here – I don't know if you've seen it – but Carrie and I have made sure that whenever he's in his chair, he gets to look out the window. 'Cos, you know, we figure that's more interesting then staring at a blank wall.

 

“But we've been working on that, too. Dad got me access to the things from Peter's office – did you know he must have had, like, an entire library in there? I did not picture that for him. Anyway, I brought some of the stuff here – some knick-knacks and things, and on the weekend, Dad and Scott are going to help me move a couple of the bookcases from storage to here so that we can put up some books, too. Make it more homey and less bland and all.

 

“Oh, and I nabbed some things from our attic. Admittedly, most of it, when I went looking, is absolute crap that my parents must have kept out of sentimentality or some kind of 'good parent' thing, 'cos it's just loads of really horrible pictures that I drew as a child, and let me tell you, none of those are winning any awards – but I figure, hey, better than nothing right? Besides, I can't wait to see Peter's face when he wakes and realises I've plastered his room with poorly-drawn stick figures and blobs from when I was a child -”

 

“Not just as a child,” Scott muttered, eyes cutting over to where Stiles had proudly taped up the over-zealous cartoon of Scott and Stiles being yelled at by Harris that he had drawn the previous day during class.

 

Laura laughed on the other end of the line and Stiles realised that she'd heard Scott. Ignoring that, he continued his rambling.

 

“So, anyway, personally, I think that, despite there not really being any noticeable difference, Peter is doing much better. Stop laughing Scott,” he added, scowling at his friend. “And that, really, you have nothing to worry about.” He left off the rest of the sentence that played out in his mind 'at least for a couple of years'.

 

“I'm glad,” Laura said. “Thank you, Stiles.”

 

“Uh, sure?” he asked. Really, how did you talk to someone who you only previously knew as your enemy/ally/friend's dead sister? (and yes, Stiles was well aware that he had been incredibly insensitive about all that when they'd first met Derek, he doesn't have an excuse for it beyond being a self-absorbed teenager).

 

“It's nice to hear that you're looking after Peter.” She paused. “There's been no change?” And oh, Stiles knew that tone. He'd only heard it rarely, but he had heard it before – from Derek. Half-hopeful, half-scared. Not wanting to get her hopes up and yet hoping anyway. Because Laura, he figured, knew about werewolf healing, and hoped that, despite all the time that had passed, Peter might still heal, might still come out of it.

 

His heart clenched, but he stayed silent. What could he say anyway? 'Don't worry, Peter will wake up in a couple of years and go on a revenge-and-insanity-fueled killing spree unless I can somehow prevent it'?

 

“No,” Stiles said, “no change.” He looked across at Peter, propped up against the head of the bed. “But hey, you probably want to talk to him, right? So, uh, here.” Shifting, Stiles moved up the bed to place the phone on the pillow next to Peter's head. “I've put the phone right by him, so, you just talk, and Scott and I will do our homework and ignore you. Yell when you've finished and I'll hang it up.”

 

“Thank you, Stiles,” Laura repeated. Blushing, Stiles moved away from the phone, back towards the end of the bed and his schoolbooks. Soft through the phone came the sound of Laura's voice, for the most part indistinct. The occasional word was loud enough to hear clearly, but Stiles was determined to do as he said he would and ignore it. Instead he focused, as much as he could, on the books spread before him.

 

In the background, the sound of Laura's, and then Derek's (and yes, Stiles' heart skipped a beat to hear that familiar tone, unintelligible as it was, but he firmly ignored that as well), voices hummed gently.

 

 

“Stiles!” The sound of his name, barked out in that familiar tone, had Stiles jumping, books flying off his lap and pens scattering. He yelped, one hand reaching up towards his chest even as he reacted automatically, flinging himself towards the phone.

 

“Derek,” he answered, bringing it swiftly up towards his ear. Was it Isaac? Erica? Boyd? Were there new hunters in town? Or a new threat they hadn't dealt with before?

 

“We've finished,” Derek said.

 

Blinking, Stiles willed his heart to calm down. Of course Derek wasn't calling him with a problem, to tell him about the latest threat to the pack, or request his help. This Derek didn't even know him yet.

 

“Right, course,” he agreed. His voice was slightly breathless and he cringed, hoping Derek didn't hear it. There was a pause, silence. As crazy as it was, Stiles couldn't help but press the phone even more firmly against his ear, listening desperately to the sound of Derek's breathing.

 

“You can hang up now,” Derek told him, and oh, Stiles could hear the scowl in that.

 

“Sure, Mr Grumpy Pants,” he replied. “Have a good evening.” Pressing the end call button, Stiles dropped the phone down onto the bed, before turning to Peter. “You know,” he said, “I used to think that whole pack thing only worked properly with you wolves. That, as a human, I was somehow exempt from some of it, but... I've spent all my time since getting to this time seeking you out – because you're the only one here who feels, properly, like pack right now. The rest are pack, but not, you know? Different, possibly because they're not wolves yet. And Derek... ugh!” Throwing his hands up in the air, Stiles flopped backwards onto the bed, nudging against Peter's knee with his elbow. “He's my alpha,” he said. “Or, he was. I'm not sure if he can be, now – not actually being one and all. But just to hear his voice – I didn't want to hang up.

 

“So I suppose it's like, a hundred times worse for you, right? I just want him to be here, to be pack, to have that security.” Staring up at the ceiling, Stiles let his breath out in a rush, before suddenly sitting upright and spinning to where Scott had been sitting, heart beating rapidly in his chest.

 

Scott was gone.

 

Relaxing, Stiles patted Peter's shoulder. “Phew,” he said. “For a moment there, I forgotten about Scott. If he'd heard that... anyway, he must have gone to get snacks or something. I'd better go find him and make sure he gets the right ones. Plus, you know, the vending machines around here are evil and sometimes need some careful coaxing to give up their goods. And I'd better give this back to Carrie.” Grabbing the phone, he jumped down from the bed.

 

“Don't go anywhere,” he added, “I'll be right back.”

 

-

 

Half-asleep, Stiles dumped his bike against the bike rack at the school, half-heartedly wrapping his chain around it and hoping it held. Hiking his backpack higher up his shoulder, he stumbled towards the entrance of the school.

 

The familiar sound of Isaacs footsteps approached behind him and Stiles grinned, forgetting in his half-asleep state that Isaac didn't really know him yet.

 

Turning, Stiles opened his mouth to greet the other boy, but the words died in his throat. A large purple bruise stood out against Isaac's cheek and his eyes darted around, skittish and terrified. For a moment, Stiles felt his brain gearing up to run through all possible threats that could leave a mark on a werewolf for any length of time, before it ground to a halt as all the air punched out of his lungs, leaving him gaping like an idiot.

 

Because Isaac hadn't been injured by some new big bad out there, he'd been injured because Stiles had been so focused on Peter and the faint pack bond he felt with him, that he hadn't stopped to think about what the rest of the pack were currently going through.

 

Isaac was injured because he was still living with his father. When had Isaac's father started hitting him, anyway? How far had it progressed? He had no idea, and that was unacceptable. Isaac couldn't stay there any longer.

 

“Dude,” Scott said, waving his hand in front of Stiles' face. “What's up?” Scott frowned at him, looking confused.

 

Blinking, Stiles realised that Isaac had moved on into the school. But that was okay, Stiles had been reminded that there were others than just Peter who needed him. Isaac would never know what hit him.

 

“Uh oh,” Scott added.

 

“What?”

 

“That's your thinking face. You have your thinking face on. You know we always end up in trouble after you have your thinking face on.”

 

“My plans,” Stiles replied haughtily, “are perfectly amazing, thank you very much.” Turning, he marched into the school, ignoring Scott's snort behind him. He had a packmate to protect.


	7. building a pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles has a plan for befriending Isaac once more (well, sort-of, it's not much of plan, to be honest). Because there's no way Stiles is going to leave Isaac to deal with things without the support of the pack (even if most of the pack aren't really pack yet).  
> It's a good thing Scott has Stiles' back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, let me apologise for the delay in getting this chapter out to you. It was not for a lack of interest or intent or anything like that. I had a real life emergency to deal with that basically took up all my time the last two weeks. Things seem to be okay now, though, so I'm hoping to get back to updating every couple of days.  
> However, that said, it is possible that with Easter and family gatherings this coming weekend, I won't be back to my regular posts until next week (although I'm hoping to still get out at least another chapter this week, we'll see how it goes).  
> Please be assured that I haven't abandoned this fic - I have far too many plans made for it and far too much fun writing it, to do that. 
> 
> Secondly, a massive thank you to everyone who has commented and given kudos to this fic. It is greatly appreciated.  
> You may all feel free to contact me on tumblr.

“The problem,” Stiles told Peter as he sat on the end of the werewolf's bed, staring across at where Peter sat, silent, in his chair, “is that, unlike I told Scott, I don't really have a plan.” He dropped his pen down onto his bed. “How can I not have a plan?” he asked.

 

Peter remained silent.

 

Sighing, Stiles flopped backwards onto the bed so that he could stare up at the ceiling. “I mean, I can't believe I managed to get so focused on you that I forgot that the others need me as well. Not that you're not worth focusing on, or anything, just that, you know – they need me too. I guess, I just got so used to them being okay, after, you know, Derek bit them, if you discount all the issues that brought with it – but, I guess, I really only started hanging out with them after they were no longer in the bad situations they're in now that I didn't think about it too much.

 

“I mean, it's not like I looked at Isaac and thought, 'oh, his dad beats him and locks him in a freezer'! He was just Isaac. You know, 'oh, that's Isaac, he lives with Derek now, which, mind-blown! Derek as a guardian to someone!' Admittedly,” he added, “Derek actually did a pretty decent job of it, in the end.” He sighed. “And Erica – well, she was always just Catwoman, you know. And man, does she pack a mean punch – with parts of my car, by the way – that was totally unfair!” Waving his hands through the air, Stiles sat up. “And I'm rambling. But, the point remains. I need a plan.”

 

-

Outside, in the corridor, a blonde teenager paused as she heard her name. She was dressed in hospital scrubs and had tearstains on her cheeks. Reaching up, she shoved her tangled hair back away from her face as she leant closer to the door.

 

Catwoman? What?

 

“Come on, Erica,” a nurse said, coming up behind her. “Let's get you back to bed.”

 

-

The next day at school, Stiles was jittery, jumping all over the place.

 

“Did you forget your adderall?” Scott asked. Blinking, Stiles turned from where he was almost-dancing in place in front of his locker.

 

“What?”

 

“Your adderall. You're really jumpy today.”

 

“Oh, right.” Nodding, Stiles watched as Isaac walked down the hall, his head ducked.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“I'm fine.” Shutting his locker with a snap, Stiles turned and followed Isaac. It was lunchtime, and he was determined (he still didn't really have a great plan, but hey, he figured he could make it up as he went along – many of their lives had been saved in such a way in the past).

 

Frowning, Scott watched Stiles walk away, before hurrying after him. Stiles may be acting weird, but that was nothing new, and Scott was hardly about to abandon him.

 

They entered the cafeteria, where Stiles followed Isaac to the food line and then over to a table. Halfway there, Isaac gave him a confused and slightly scared look over his shoulder. Stiles just smiled back – which probably wasn't that encouraging, he admitted, seeing the way Isaac cringed.

 

However, when Stiles dumped his tray down on the table beside Isaac, the other boy looked up with a harsh glare much more reminiscent of his initial days of being a wolf.

 

“What?” Isaac bit out.

 

Stiles paused, before deciding to go with his planned approach anyway. “Hey Isaac!” he chirped happily.

 

Isaac frowned, eyes narrowing. “What do you want?” he asked. Stiles was suddenly reminded that Isaac worked in a graveyard. At night. Wait! Did Isaac work in the graveyard yet? Or did that come later?

 

Hesitantly, Scott sat down opposite them, giving Isaac a wary grin, but one totally working the puppy-dog eyes at the same time. Isaac deflated somewhat.

 

“Can't I just say hi?” Stiles asked.

 

“No,” Isaac replied. “You never have before.”

 

“Okay, so, before,” Stiles admitted, waving his hands around wildly as a distraction, and to help himself gather his thoughts. “Forget about before. This is now, and this time, it's going to be better.”

 

Isaac and Scott both gave him confused looks.

 

“Right,” Stiles said, “let me try that again. Hi, I'm Stiles.” He stuck his hand out, wiggling it at Isaac, who simply stared back at him. The bruise had changed colours somewhat from the previous day, but was still livid and dark against Isaac's pale skin. “This is the part where you shake my hand,” Stiles prompted. “You know, like people do when they meet each other.”

 

Slowly, as though half-afraid that Stiles was going to snatch his hand back at any moment – or perhaps hit Isaac with it – Isaac reached across the table, giving Stiles' hand a swift shake. He pulled back quickly, staring at him.

 

“Awesome!” Stiles declared. “Now, in the tradition that spans countless years, we can be friends.” He grinned broadly.

 

“Friends?” Isaac asked.

 

“Dude,” Scott complained, “why didn't you say we were going to be friends with Isaac?” Then, proving why he was Scott, he got up, moving around to the other side of the table and Isaac's other side, where he held out his hand with a grin.

 

Still looking as though he really had no idea what was going on, Isaac gingerly shook Scott's hand.

 

“Don't I get a say in this?” he asked.

 

“Nope,” Stiles replied, grabbing some fries off Isaac's plate, but replacing them with the yoghurt he knew Isaac secretly loved. Isaac blinked, watching the action, before leaning back with a scowl and crossing his arms.

 

“I think I do,” he said.

 

“You really don't,” Scott replied. “I think, like, Lydia Martin is the only person to ever withstand the Stiles force.”

 

“The Stiles force?” Isaac asked.

  
“What are you talking about?” Stiles shot back. “Not even Lydia could stand it in the end.” He sprang to his feet, eyes seeking her out (next to Jackson), across the room.

 

“Uh, Stiles,” Scott said. “You're still working on part one of your ten-year plan, aren't you? She hasn't even acknowledged you yet.”

 

But Stiles wasn't listening. “Hey! Lydia!” he called. Automatically, her head came up and she turned to look in his direction with a frown. Stiles waved, turning back to the others even as Lydia dismissed him with a look of disdain. “See?” he said.

 

“Uh, dude, I see Lydia ignoring you like always,” Scott replied.

 

“She does have a rather skillful aloofness to it,” Isaac admitted. Scott grinned back at him.

 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But Stiles has 'A Plan'.” He put the air quotes around it and everything.

 

Isaac rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that,” he replied.

 

Meanwhile, Stiles sunk back down into his seat. He'd forgotten, for a moment, with Scott and Isaac right there, that Lydia didn't know him yet. Or anymore. His brain twisted itself up in knots every time he tried to figure out how best to think of it. Point was, as far as Lydia was concerned, he was still a non-entity.

 

Then he heard Scott's soft laughter, and saw the shy smile tugging at the corners of Isaac's lips. Giving himself a silent fist-pump, and ignoring the looks it earned him, Stiles decided that part one of his plan had gone off perfectly – or at least without any insurmountable hitches.

 

Time for part two.

 

“So, Isaac,” he said, “now that we're friends and all, I feel you should know that Scott and I will be moving bookcases into Uncle Peter's room this weekend.” He paused. Isaac had a wary and confused look on his face.

 

“Uncle Peter is a friend of Stiles' dad,” Scott explained. “He's in a coma, has been for what, three years now?”

 

“Four,” Stiles corrected. Isaac still looked confused. “You're coming,” Stiles added. There was no need to give Isaac a way to weasel out of it. Besides his strength would come in handy when – but no, Isaac wasn't a wolf yet, so no super strength, Stiles corrected himself. Then he gave Isaac an assessing look – he still looked stronger than Stiles, so that was something.

 

“Stiles!” Scott complained. “You're invited,” he corrected to Isaac.

 

“Coming,” Stiles repeated. He smiled. “It's what friends do.”

 

Isaac gave Scott a look. “I really don't have a choice, do I?” he asked.

 

“Nope,” Scott admitted. “Why do you think I hang out with him?” Isaac cracked a smile at that, but Stiles spluttered.

 

“Excuse me?” he asked, “who is the one dragging me down to your nerd depths? If it wasn't for you I'd be... I'd be... the Jackson of the school, but not nearly so much a douche!”

 

Scott shook his head sadly. “Delusional,” he said.

 

Stiles pouted. “You love me,” he replied.

 

“Yeah,” Scott replied with a shrug. Then he turned to Isaac to ask about their math homework and Stiles leant back with a grin as Isaac slowly answered (the fact that Stiles _may_ have overbalanced and fallen off over his chair was neither here nor there – he was a growing teen, stuff like that just happened to him, okay!) 

 

-

“Ta da!” Stiles exclaimed, stepped back from the bookcase he had just helped his father and Scott shove up against the wall. Dusting his hands off on his jeans, he turned to grin at Peter. “What do you think?” he asked.

 

“Doesn't matter,” the Sheriff replied, “that bookshelf is staying there.” Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but the Sheriff just shook his finger in Stiles' face. “No, Stiles,” he said. “I am not going to move it to every possible position in the room just so you can decide where it fits best.”

 

Pouting, Stiles shot Peter a look, hoping for some help. “But what if Peter doesn't like it there?” he asked.

 

“Then he can wake up and tell us himself,” his father replied.

 

There was a hesitant knock on the door. Glancing over, Stiles grinned broadly (and perhaps somewhat insanely). “Isaac!” he exclaimed.

 

“Isaac?” the Sheriff asked.

 

Isaac sunk backwards, hugging the slight shadows in the door frame.

 

“Isaac's our new friend,” Scott explained, all innocent joy at this fact. Stiles could just hug him. 

 

“Huh,” the Sheriff replied, shooting Stiles a somewhat confused look (so Stiles had been a possessive and jealous bastard when it came to his friendship with Scott the last time around, didn't mean everyone had to be so surprised that he had grown and matured and could make new friends now!)

 

“Yep,” Stiles agreed, popping the 'p', and reaching out to usher Isaac into the room with a fair amount of flailing. “He's here to help with the bookshelves.”

 

The Sheriff sighed. “I hope you didn't coerce him into this, Stiles,” he said. And really, as Stiles' father, the man really should have more faith in his son! Then, turning to Isaac, the Sheriff smiled. “It's nice to meet you, Isaac,” he said. “Don't let my son talk you into anything you don't wanna do.” Shaking his head, he moved out of the room. “Someone better come help me with the next bookshelf!” he called over his shoulder.

 

Rolling his eyes at his father's dramatics, Stiles watched as Isaac's eyes darted around the room. The other boy watched the Sheriff warily until he disappeared, and seemed wary of Peter as well, at first. Then he relaxed, seeming to realise that Peter really was in a coma and therefore couldn't do anything to him.

 

“So, anyway,” Stiles explained, motioning to the comatose werewolf. “This is Uncle Peter.”

 

“Hi,” Isaac murmured softly.

 

“We're really glad you decided to come,” Scott told him fervently. He smiled, bright and open. Isaac relaxed further. Stiles gave a silent fist-pump (and a quick glare to Peter to make sure he didn't say anything about the fist-pump).

 

“Oh!” Scott suddenly exclaimed, “your dad!” He raced out of the room, Stiles and Isaac following slowly after.

 

 

They managed to get three bookshelves set up in the room, before lugging in multiple boxes of books. 

 

“I didn't really choose the books with too much thought,” Stiles explained to Peter as they worked.

 

“Don't worry,” Scott told Isaac, “Stiles never shuts up. You get used to it.”

 

Stiles gave him a betrayed look at that, but continued on regardless. “I pretty much just grabbed whatever was closest,” he explained. “Seeing as most of them were already boxed up, that helped too.” Reaching into a box, he pulled out another book. “Huh,” he said, turned it over to stare at it. “This isn't a mass-produced paperback designed for mindless reading. Still,” he admitted, “this is more your style, I think.” The book in his hand was old, the pages worn and yellowed with age. The cover was simple brown leather, nothing written on it. Reaching up, Stiles placed it on the shelf, before grabbing another.

 

One by one, he unearthed book after book, until they had filled all three bookshelves.

 

“Dude,” Scott said at one stage, “Uncle Peter sure has a lot of fantasy books.”

 

Stiles, who had been rambling about the benefits of leather versus sheepskin bindings for books (so he'd researched some weird topics in the past, no biggie), looked up. He hadn't thought much of it as they worked. It seemed so natural for Peter to have those things.

 

Ancient books, books on werewolves and magic and.... eyes widening, Stiles stared at the bookshelves. Peter's library was a treasure trove. The kind of thing that Stiles would have killed for (had killed for, but he tried not to dwell on that) in the past – future – whatever. 

 

This was... this was three bookshelves of resource material he could use. Old, worn books, some even written in other languages, which likely contained actual, factual knowledge about the strange world he had found himself in.

 

Other books, sources, written as mythologies or abstract accounts or historical records of local myths and legends, which, while they may be largely wrong in places, also likely contained nuggets of truth.

 

“Peter,” Stiles breathed, “I think I love you.”

 

Scott snorted, and Isaac gave him a wide-eyed look, but Stiles waved them aside. His fingers itched, eager to get at the wealth of knowledge spread out before him.

 

Scott sighed. “You're going to go on another research spree, aren't you?” he asked. Stiles nodded absently.

 

Just then, the Sheriff, who had left to find them some sandwiches, re-entered the room. “What's going on?” he asked, glancing around at them. 

 

Scott groaned. “Stiles it going to read all the books,” he said, motioned at the newly-filled shelves. The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. “ _All_ the books,” Scott repeated.

 

“Well,” the Sheriff said, but he didn't seem to know what else to say to that, so he simply handed out their sandwiches, Isaac accepting his with a kind of wary thankfulness. 

 

“It'll be awesome,” Stiles declared, patting Peter on the shoulder as he moved over to accept his sandwich. 

 

 

There wasn't much left to do after that. They packed up the empty boxes, and shoved them into a corner to be taken out when they were ready to leave. 

 

“I've gotta head back to the station for a bit this afternoon,” Stiles' dad explained, giving them all a look. “I've spoken to Melissa and she'll keep an eye out for you. If I'm not back by the time she gets off shift, you'll go home with her.” Stiles nodded, only half-listening to what he considered to be oft-repeated words (Melissa had certainly done so in the past – and the future – although the number of times she did so increased once Scott's douche of a father was out of the picture). “Isaac,” the Sheriff continued, “do you need a lift home? Melissa is happy to drop you off home if needed when she gets off shift? Or you could go back with the others?”

 

“I'm fine,” Isaac murmured. And man, it made Stiles kinda miss the whole bad-boy persona thing Isaac had had going in the future/past/whatever, even if he had thought Isaac needed to tone it down a bit – which he did over time, thankfully.

 

“All right,” the Sheriff replied. “Just ask if you need anything. Stiles knows how to contact me.” Stiles waved one hand in acknowledgment at that. “It would be a good idea to work on your homework at some stage, too,” the Sheriff added. Giving a nod, he stepped towards the door, before pausing and turning back. “I'll see you later, Peter,” he said.

 

Grinning down at the book in his lap (liberated from Peter's new shelves), Stiles gave an internal fist-pump. He wasn't entirely sure how he was managing it, but somehow, slowly and surely, he seemed to be building a pack – or at least a kind of loose family (which was what pack was, really), around Peter. 

 

-

By the time Melissa came to get them, Stiles had read through half a book, Scott and Isaac had worked through half their homework, and the sun was sinking towards the horizon.

 

“Homework done?” she asked, poking her head around the door frame. 

 

“Mostly,” Scott said, glancing up.

 

“Stiles?” Melissa asked, eyes lighting on his book.

 

“Hmmm? Oh,” Stiles said, blinking his eyes rapidly as he looked up. “Did you know?” he asked, “that I was totally right? Werewolves are tactile beings!” He held up his book in triumph. “And it's especially important for those who have been injured.”

 

Melissa blinked. Isaac turned to Scott with a questioning look. Scott sighed. “Stiles has found a new research topic,” he explained.

 

Stiles felt he should perhaps be somewhat upset by the understanding look that immediately came over Melissa's face, but really, the information in the book he held was far too interesting, and important, for him to give it much thought.

 

“And your homework?” she asked.

 

“I'll do it later,” Stiles replied, waving one hand. “I'm almost finished.” Sighing, Melissa shook her head.

 

“Don't think I won't tell your father that promise,” she said. Stiles ignored that, too. Because really, the book was starting to talk about pack bonds. This was pure gold! “Stiles!” Melissa snapped.

 

“Right, right,” he agreed, “later.” Sighing, and knowing when to pick her battles Melissa motioned for them to get up.

 

“Time to go, boys,” she said. “You coming back with us Isaac? Or did you want me to drop you off home?”

 

“You don't mind me coming over?” Isaac asked, sounding both hesitant and hopeful all at once, even as he tried to hide it behind an unconcerned face. The sound made Stiles look up finally, pulled towards the vulnerability he heard in his packmate's voice. He needn't have worried.

 

“'Course not,” Melissa replied. “And I make a mean pasta dish, so I can promise you won't go hungry if you stay for dinner.”

 

“If, if it's not too much trouble.”

 

“Not at all.” Melissa smiled at him. Isaac relaxed further. Stiles wondered, briefly, when Isaac had lost his mother. He knew he had. Things like that had been known amongst the pack. But they didn't really talk about them. Not really. And if they did, it was in abstracts, or brief mentions. Nothing deep or serious. There had always (would always?) been too many other things to worry about.

 

“You don't mind if I borrow this, do you, Peter?” Stiles asked, pushing himself to his feet, and holding that book up. He paused, waiting, but Peter didn't reply. “Good,” he said. 

 

Grabbing his backpack and slinging it onto his back, he turned to follow the others from the room. Isaac lingered in the doorway, staring back at Peter.

 

“Maybe,” he said softly. “Maybe, next time, we could take him outside for a bit?” he suggested hesitantly.

 

Stiles barely contained his happy dance. “Sure!” he agreed enthusiastically. “Great idea! Hey, do you think we could have, like, wheelchair races or something?”

 

“Stiles!” Melissa warned. 

 

Laughing, and jostled between Scott and Isaac (deliberately ignoring Isaac's flinches until they lessened and turned into extremely gentle jostles back), Stiles left with the hospital with the brightest feeling he had had since he found himself back in the past.

 

Maybe, just maybe, everything would work out.

 

-

In the darkness, Peter felt another warmth join him, a soft, thin, barely there thread which pulsed and brushed up against him.  _Pack_ his mind murmured contentedly, stretching.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone can explain the American school system to me - I would appreciate it. I realised that I have mentioned Harris as their teacher in this- but have also made Stiles and Scott 14. So, in America, would they be in High School? Or Middle School? (I am Australian, and don't want to confuse everyone by stuffing up the American school system). Thanks.


	8. Better?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to learn how to write short fic – things that aren't one-shots and yet aren't epically-long novels, either. Because guys, guys, this was meant to be a short fic – not a one-shot, but not too long either. Only – the plots! All the plots! And the ideas! And the fact that I have chapter plans, but I never fit everything into a chapter that I want to! And so it just carries over and over and over and the number of chapters increases.  
> So, I'm sorry, but this looks like it's going to end up fairly long. You have been warned.
> 
> Also, another BIG thank you for all your comments and kudos, etc. Obviously, it's been a while since the last chapter. My apologies. Real life struck again – I spent the last week sick. So, I'm not gonna promise timeframes for updates, but I will promise that I haven't given up on this fic. And I will be updating it.  
> And, a BIG thank you to everyone who answered my question – I got a lot of responses which basically boiled down to – they could either be in grade 8 or 9, depends on their birthdays. So, I think for now, I'm going to assume they're in grade 9 (which may change depending on how the plot goes, but looks like it might work well)
> 
> (and I apologise in advance for the fact that I have now seen the new Captain America and will be slightly distracted by all the 'oooh shiny!' fic ideas I have for that – but I am determined not to let them hinder this fic)
> 
> WARNING: there are slight mentions of suicidal thoughts in this chapter.

 

“Did you know,” Stiles asked from where he was sprawled over Scott's bed, chewing absently on the end of a pen as his eyes continued to scan the pages in front of him, “that the ability of a werewolf to heal themselves is directly related to their pack? Like, say, Omegas, they don't actually heal really well. So that whole, 'it makes us stronger' thing is actually legit. But not just in strength, but also, like, in healing ability and senses, and... well, according to this, anyway.” Looking up, he blinked to see the faces staring back at him. “What?” he asked.

 

Scott sighed. “Are you going to thoroughly educate us on werewolves for the next week or so?” he asked.

 

And oh, that was right, Stiles remembered. Scott and Isaac didn't _know_ yet. “Nope,” he replied.

 

Scott stared at him in shock.

 

“At least the next month, possibly longer,” Stiles continued easily. “There will be _tests!_ ” 

 

Scott groaned.

 

“Tests?” Isaac asked. He'd relaxed slowly over the time spent at Scott's, so that he no longer looked as though he was going to vibrate apart from the tension of holding himself together. “Can he do that?” He looked to Scott.

 

“He once gave me a pop test on DC versus Marvel,” Scott whined, pressing his face into the carpet where he was sprawled on the floor beside Isaac.

 

“That doesn't sound too bad,” Isaac ventured.

 

“What?” Scott asked, head shooting up.

 

“Well, I mean, that's easy, right?” Isaac said, glancing between them. Grinning, and not even looking up from his book, Stiles held up his hand for a fist-bump. He counted it as a major win when, after a long moment, Isaac complied (Stile's fist-pump in celebration was -almost- entirely internal).

 

“But seriously,” Stiles said, waving his book in the air, “according to this, the bonds between packmates actually strengthen each individual wolf... kinda, kinda like how three people can lift something that weighs more than the sum of what each person can lift individually? Only, because the packbonds are there, that strength is always available. BUT – it's increased the closer they are. So, say, if you have a pack spread over a large geographical area, then the bonds spend up some of their strength in reaching between them, losing strength the further away from each other they are. And the closer they are, then the stronger the bonds.

 

“So, an injured wolf is often surrounded by the pack – quite literally – until they heal.” He glanced up with another grin. It threatened to slip at the uncomprehending faces that looked back at him, but Stiles refused to let that happen, forcing his grin to stay. They may not have the same knowledge and memories as the people he remembered, but they were still them. And they were _alive_. That alone made up for everything else.

 

“This is, this is,” he said, waving his arms around and unable to fully articulate it to them. How could he? How could he explain the importance of finding this out? This was the information they had been missing out on last time. The solid evidence that said, yes, this is what you need to do. This will make you stronger. This will heal you.

 

Oh, sure, they'd tried. They'd all tried in the end. Derek – who tried so hard, even as Stiles could see the cracks forming underneath, the fear he never dared let show, the way he scrabbled for knowledge and control he had never been taught – because Derek was never meant to be Alpha. That had never been in the plans his family made.

 

Peter – so broken and, quite frankly, creepy, who didn't seem to know how to do anything else than get revenge – at least at first. But even that was born of the need to protect the pack. Peter, who struggled to remember anything other than pain and fire and revenge.

 

Scott – who simply couldn't understand, refused even, at times, to understand, what was happening to him. What was needed. But desperately trying, all the same, to do what was right. Confused because he saw the wolf as wrong, when Derek and the others saw the wolf as simply part of themselves. So desperate to save lives.

 

Isaac – so hurt and scared and lashing out at others in order to feel in control

 

Erica – so alive and bright, and emotionally wounded, unsure how to deal with her newfound physical strength

 

Boyd – so lonely and then so quiet, watching and waiting, steady and loyal, but still lonely

 

Even Jackson – so desperate to be perfect, to be the best, always striving to prove himself

 

And Lydia – Lydia, who was like him. Thrown into the whole thing because of her friendships, struggling in a world full of monsters and hunters and things that went bump in the night. Lydia, afraid of herself, and hiding, for so long

 

Danny – Danny, who Stiles barely got to know before he was gone. Danny, who he thought was perhaps the only sane, sensible one of them all. The only one not fighting himself even before it all started.

 

They'd tried so hard to make it work, to pull together, to become a Pack, to save each other. And in the end, it hadn't been enough.

 

But that was okay – because Stiles was here once more. He had a second chance, and there was no way he was going to let that chance slip through his fingers.

 

“Stiles!”

 

Blinking, Stiles looked up to where Scott leant over him, frowning and clicking his fingers in his face. “What?” he asked.

 

Scott rolled his eyes. “Mom's calling us,” he said. “You want a lift home? Or are you gonna stay the night?”

 

“Home,” Stiles decided. Mind racing to try and remember if there was anything else he was meant to be doing. The edges of his eyes prickled and smarted, and he hoped that Scott couldn't see any of that in his face. Because remembering – well, it hurt. So, most of the time, he tried not to. Especially in front of others.

 

“Okay,” Scott agreed, giving him a strange look. He paused. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, Scott, I know,” Stiles said, forcing a smile as he pushed himself up from the bed.

 

-

Standing behind his closed front door, listening to the sound of Scott's Mom pulling away in her car, the headlights flashing across the windows as she did so, Stiles breathed deeply.

 

He felt jittery, unsettled. His thoughts earlier had strayed too much into  _before_ . Running one hand over his head, he sighed, turning to the side where the car keys were kept. They weren't there.

 

Leaning his head against the wall, Stiles pushed down a half-sob, half-laugh. He couldn't drive yet. He felt as though he was flying into pieces. Holding onto his ragged edges with just his fingernails.

 

And there was no-one who he could go to, no-one who would even understand.

 

Shaking his head, Stiles pushed himself away from the wall. Half-determined, half-acting on autopilot, he made his way back outside and round to where his bike was chained. Shaking fingers unlocked the chain, then, before he could think too much about it, he swung himself up onto the seat and pushed off. 

 

The night air whipped around him, stinging harshly against the tears upon his cheeks. His breath was rapid and uneven, heaving through his lungs. He peddled as though he could somehow outrun the past – future – chasing after him, dark shadows in the night.

 

-

“It's strange to think, that this is where I come now,” Stiles said, scrubbing one hand over his face before climbing up onto the bed beside Peter. “There was a time I wouldn't have come within ten feet of you – no, even further away than that, 'cos you were _fast_ – if I could help it. And now I'm here...” he let his voice trail off as he shifted, staring up at the ceiling above him, tracing shadows with his eyes.

 

“Thing is, you and me, we're kinda all each other has. Well, no, we've also got Scott, and Isaac now, too.” He sighed. “I guess, maybe because you can't talk back, it seems okay to tell you things. Things I'd have to explain if I tried to tell the others. And I don't know if I can explain, not yet...

 

“Have you ever done something, something so insane and crazy that you wondered whether, in doing it, you were actually doing something else?” He laughed dryly. “I bet that doesn't even make sense. See, the thing is... the thing is, we were desperate.” His voice broke and he had to clear his throat. “I know that everyone get's desperate sometimes. But this, this was _desperate_. This wasn't failing a test at school, or disappointing your parents, or even, even, watching someone you love die.

 

“This was watching them all die.

 

“I knew about the pack bonds, you know, before reading that book. I felt them die. Knew they were important. Knew they made you stronger - but we always focused on strength in fighting. Still, the other stuff makes sense.

 

“After we started dying – one by one – we all started healing slower. I used to think that maybe it was my 'spark' that made me heal faster than a normal human, now I'm not so sure. Maybe it was both. Or neither. How would I know?

 

“That's all I have really, guess-work, and books, and silence.” He turned to face Peter, propping his head up on one hand as he spoke. He was on Peter's left. From this angle, he couldn't see the scars, the burn marks, that dragged against the other side of Peter's face. 

 

“I don't like remembering it,” he said. “Which is stupid, really, considering I need to remember it. That's what I'm here for, isn't it? To remember? No-one else does. Just me.

 

“That's why I was sent back. Because we were desperate... so desperate that it didn't matter that I could have died.” Closing his eyes, Stiles pushed back against the tears he cold feel filling them. “Sometimes,” he whispered, “I wonder whether I wanted to die. Whether it would have mattered if I had died. If I would have cared. I felt like I didn't have anything left to care with.”

 

Shaking his head, Stiles turned onto his back, staring once more at the ceiling.

 

“So I suppose it was stupid,” he said. “What we did. Stupid and desperate and it worked.” He laughed. “Sometimes I imagine telling someone, well, someone other than you. No offense. But who would I tell? Dad would never believe me, and I can't burden him with that, not _now_.” His voice cracked once more, but he pressed on. “Or Scott. But how could I prove anything to him? Isaac? We've barely started talking this time round. And Lydia – she doesn't even know I exist yet.

 

“Which leaves you – who can't ask me questions or to explain myself, but you also can't talk back. Give me any advice.” He paused. “You know, this would be a really good time for you to suddenly decide to wake up,” he said. Then grinned, a tear splashing between his parted lips to trace salt along his tongue. “Still, if you did wake up, you'd probably give me a heart attack – 'cos seriously dude, give a guy some warning, right? - and then I'd be the one in need of a hospital bed.” He sighed.

 

Reaching over, Stiles, let his fingers rest over Peter's. “I've got to think that I'm back here for a reason,” he said. “That this time isn't random. That there's something important I'm missing. Some reason the spell sent me back here, instead of earlier – or later. 

 

“We spent so long – as long as we could afford while running for our lives, at least – trying to make sure we got it right. We only had the one try, after all. And it sent me here.” Frowning, Stiles shifted, leaning his head against Peter's shoulder. “Why here?” he asked.

 

Shudder shooting through him with the thought, Stiles flung himself upright, turning to stare down at Peter. “Is that it?” he asked. “Is that why?” His arms waved wildly through the air before he managed to calm them enough to, at least, prevent himself from taking his own head off.

 

“The book said that werewolves heal faster, and not just faster, but _better_ , with their pack around them. That the closer the pack is, the stronger the pack bonds, and therefore the more strength they have to draw on.” He paused, gaping down at Peter. Then he shook his head.

 

“But we're not pack,” he said. “Scott hasn't been bitten yet, or Isaac, or... Derek used to say that being human didn't exclude you from the pack – well, no, Derek used to say, 'don't be an idiot, Stiles, the Hale pack has always had humans in it', or, when he was feeling particularly nice, 'of course you're part of the pack, Stiles, you fit the pattern – stubborn, annoying, and an idiot'.” Stiles grinned as he tried to make his voice mimic Derek's, turning to Peter to see his reaction. Peter remained still.

 

“So maybe,” he said, “maybe we can be pack. But can we? Without you or Derek – or heck, I suppose it's Laura at the moment – making us pack? Can we be pack just by being here?” Closing his eyes, gripping his hands tight into fists, Stiles reached down into himself.

 

Into that part that  _ached_ each time they lost someone, as though something was breaking loose, snapping, inside him.

 

It was small, small and weak and new – but it was there, layered on top of the old hurts, the scars. A bright, warm, pulse of something.

 

“Oh,” he gasped. Eyes flying wide open, Stiles stared at Peter. “This is why I'm here, now,” he said, “it has to be. Because you need me. You need a pack. One that's here.” Reaching out, he tentatively smoothed his hand over Peter's face. “Will it help?” he asked. “Will be make you wake up faster? _Better_?” 

 

-

Stiles woke to sunshine washing over his face and the noise of early morning rounds at the hospital. Eyes flying wide, he bodily flung himself over the side of the bed with a, “Shit! Shit! Shit! - Ow!”

 

Groaning, Stiles rolled onto his back and then sat up, rubbing at his shoulder, elbows and knees. “Not a word,” he told Peter sternly, before peeking over the bed and towards the door. He knew he was incredibly lucky he'd not been discovered during the night. “Okay,” he muttered.

 

Reaching over, Stiles grabbed the phone (he was fairly sure it was his father who had arranged for it) which had been placed in the room specifically for Peter to receive calls.

 

Quickly, furtively, he dialed Scott's number.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, Mrs McCall,” Stiles chirped, while still trying to keep his voice down. 

 

“Stiles,” she said on a sigh. “I suppose you want to talk to Scott?”  


“Yep.”

 

“And it can't wait until you see him at school?”

 

“Uh, no, not really,” he admitted. 

 

“All right.” There was a pause, a faint call of “Scott!” and then the sound of the phone passing hands.

 

“Stiles?” Scott asked, “what's wrong?”

 

“Soooo,” said Stiles, dragging the sound out. “I stayed at your house last night.”

 

“Yeah,” agreed Scott, “you and Isaac. Then Mom drove you both home -”

 

“No,” Stiles cut in, “I stayed at your house last night. All night,” he added, in case Scott hadn't got it yet.

 

“Oh. Okay,” Scott agreed. “Why?”

 

“Tell you later. Just... if Dad wakes up and I'm not there – you gotta back me up on this.”

 

“You know I will.” Scott sounded almost hurt by the implication that he wouldn't. “You need me to man the phone in case he calls here this morning?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, that would be great.”

  
“Are you going to be at school?”

 

“Yeah, just, if you could bring me a spare change of clothes – it would save some embarrassment.”

 

Scott laughed. Stiles rolled his eyes. The sounds from outside the room were getting closer.

 

“I gotta go,” he hissed. “And Scott, thanks.”

 

“Sure,” Scott replied.

 

Hanging up, Stiles thrust the phone back into position before pushing himself to his feet and straightening his clothes. Carrie looked up as she came in.

 

“Stiles?” she asked. “Bit early for a visit, isn't it?”

 

Stiles shrugged. “Just popping in before heading to school. I'll see you later, Peter,” he added, as he moved towards the door.

 

Shaking her head, Carrie watched him go.

 

-

“Clothes,” Scott said, holding out a backpack to Stiles, “and some paper and pens so that you don't look completely unprepared for class.”

 

“You, are a lifesaver!” Stiles exclaimed, taking it from him. He ducked his head, trying to ignore Scott's curious eyes.

 

“Sooo?” Scott asked.

 

“So?”

 

“Where were you?” 

 

Stiles shrugged. “I just... I needed to clear my head. Things got a bit much.” Scott's expression softened, and Stiles cringed inwardly as he realised that Scott thought he was talking about his mother. Which caused another pang – at her loss – to race through him. “Anyway,” he added, turning and striding into the school, “I have a feeling that today is going to be a great day.”

 

Someone brushed past them, hurrying down the corridor. Stiles frowned, turning to watch. Scott continued to walk, oblivious to what was happening.

 

But this wasn't the Stiles of the past, this was a Stiles who remembered so much more – and there was something about the way the other person moved. Hurried and furtive all at once.

 

There was a hushed, frantic conversation, Stiles realised, just down the hall. In one of the side-rooms. Students spilling into classrooms ready for the first lesson of the day.

 

Without conscious thought, he found himself moving, heading in that direction.

 

“Stiles?” Scott asked.

 

Pushing through the people around him, shoving at those crowded at the doorway, Stiles came to a sudden halt. His breath, already harsh and panicked, caught in his throat. There was a dull roaring in his ears – something he hadn't felt, not properly, since coming back to the past. Oh, he almost had, when looking at Peter's burns, or Isaac's bruises. But this was something more, the rush and throb of adrenalin, the roar of anger and fear, the all-consuming determination that gripped him before going into battle for the lives of his pack.

 

Erica. It was Erica.


	9. this is why I'm here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know - it's been a while. But, uh - it's longer than usual?
> 
> WARNING: this chapter deals with one of Erica's seizures. Please be aware of this if this is triggering for you.
> 
> And I'm no expert on seizures, so aplogise in advance if I managed to stuff up my description of one here. I did do some research into it, so hope it's not too unrealistic.

Erica was lying on the floor, body convulsing through a seizure. Without conscious thought, Stiles stepped closer. It was some time since he had helped Erica through a seizure (he had never yet helped her), but not so long that he didn't remember what to do.

 

“Do we put something in her mouth?” someone asked.

 

“Maybe?” someone else suggested.

 

There was snickering from behind them.

 

“Hey!” Scott exclaimed, glaring at the culprits. But Stiles' attention was fully on Erica. In the back of his mind he knew that he was reacting in a way he never would have if he hadn't travelled back in time – just his knowledge of what to do for her was more than he would have had otherwise. But it was more than that.

 

It was the way his senses heightened, sharpened. The way he knew, without having to think about it, that there were twenty people crowded into the room. Three looked anxious, but ignorant, arguing over what they should do. Five were snickering in a small group. Seven were just kind of standing, helplessly. One was mimicking Erica for the laughter of his two friends, and the last two were filming her.

 

He knew that there was only one entrance and exit, which he and Scott had just pushed through. Knew that those around them weren't a threat, not really. They were minor considerations, catalogued and stored away for when he would deal with them – later, once he knew Erica was okay.

 

He knew that Scott was at his back, scowling at those who were making fun of her.

 

_Good,_ his mind whispered.  _Scott can deal with them, while I help Erica._ Distantly, he knew there was something wrong with that reasoning. Something he had to remember (that Scott didn't know yet, had no idea), but he was too focused on Erica, on the situation, to worry about that.

 

“No!” He snapped, as one of the girls reached forward, something clasped in her hand as she moved towards Erica's mouth. His hand shot out, grasping hers tightly. She gasped, eyes widening as she stared at him.

 

“Hang on,” one of the others said, “it says here not to put anything in her mouth.”

 

Ignoring her, Stiles already knew all that, he reached out, placing his hand on her shoulder, and  _pushed_ .

 

It burned. He gasped. Oh, that was right. Erica wasn't pack. Not yet. Not in any way other than the fact that Stiles himself still carried the broken and scarred wound from his pack-bond with her.

 

But that didn't matter. That spark inside of him, that spark that he'd barely used since coming back to the past (it had been so exhausted, so weak, so tired, and he was, honestly, somewhat afraid of what he might do with it), surged.

 

He could feel the warmth curling up within him, shooting out from that place inside where his pack-bonds lived. Reaching, reaching, reaching out. It twined down his arm, through his fingers, and into Erica. 

 

Her seizures slowed, but didn't stop. 

 

Slowly, Stiles began to consciously take in the rest of the information that had been pushed aside in his rush to help her. The laughter, the now-gaping students who were staring at him, knelt down beside her.

  
With a last shudder, Erica's body came to a halt. Looking across at the worried girls on Erica's other side, Stiles frowned.

 

“Fetch the nurse,” he said. His voice came out harsh, authoritative. It was a voice that was used to being obeyed. A voice he'd used countless times before (never used before) in battle.

 

They nodded, scrambling to their feet and scurrying away. He turned his head. Scott had unleashed the full force of the 'Scott McCall is disappointed in you' look on the snickerers. They had stilled and were now looking uncomfortable as Stiles' gaze swept over them. 

 

He dismissed them. They were not a threat. Not currently.

 

But his mind was stirring, remembering. Remembering bitter words spoken to cover up the hurt beneath. Remembering...

 

His gaze narrowed in on the two with the phone. 

 

“Stiles?” Scott asked, he sounded hesitant.

 

Stiles reached out his free hand (his other one still pressed to Erica, their connection pulsing through it). “Give me that,” he said. His voice was flat, dead.

 

With a wary glance at each other, and then back at him, the two complied. As soon as he had it in his hand, Stiles glanced down at the phone. His first instinct was to throw it away from him, to smash it. To completely destroy something that he knew had (would) hurt Erica so badly.

 

But he wasn't just an impulsive teen (even if being back in time, back in his teenage body, made those impulses harder to ignore). He had lived through so much more than this. Knew how to think, and judge his decisions.

 

Flicking up the video, Stiles deleted it, making sure they could see what he was doing. The boys scowled, but something in his face must have warned them off, as they said nothing. Calmly, Stiles reached out his hand, holding the phone out for them to take back.

 

Reaching forward, the taller boy clasped it. Stiles let a small smirk cross his lips, felt the tingle in his fingers, and released it, glancing back down to Erica. 

 

He looked back up at everyone in the room. “Get out,” he said, voice flat. There was a pause, Stiles scowled. “Get. Out.” he repeated. 

  
With a flurry of movement, the students fled. At the same time, there was the sound of voices and footsteps from the corridor, and suddenly the nurse and principle burst into the room, followed by the two girls who had left to get them.

 

“Mr, Stilinski?” the Principle questioned. His eyes seemed drawn to where Stiles' hand lay, gently stroking Erica's hair beneath his fingers. Even Scott looked confused (of course Scott was confused, he didn't know yet).

 

“Sir,” Stiles replied. He shuffled back a bit, but didn't remove his hand from Erica completely. The bond hummed beneath his fingers, and he wasn't entirely sure what would happen if he let go. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure what he had done to create it in the first place.

 

The next few moments were filled with the bustle of the principle calling an ambulance as the nurse moved around Erica, checking on her. She sat back with a sigh.

 

“She seems better than usual,” she muttered, and Stiles felt a pang of guilt. How many times? How many times had Erica experienced a seizure at school, and he'd been completely oblivious to it? And her?

 

“Mr Stilinski,” the Principle said, approaching him, “we can take it from here. Why don't you head to class.”

 

Stiles just looked up at him. He could hear the words, could even, in some way, understand them. But he just... froze. He couldn't let go of her. Couldn't let Erica be taken to the hospital by herself. Couldn't let her out of his sight, not when she'd just gone through that, and he could still remember the scent of her blood on the back of his tongue as she bled out beneath his hands.

 

“Shouldn't someone go with her?” Scott asked, stepping forward. “To the hospital, I mean.”

 

“Her parents have been called,” the Principle explained, “they'll meet her there.”

 

Scott cast Stiles a helpless look, eyes wide and concerned. Stiles said nothing.

 

Biting his lip, and looking incredibly uncomfortable, Scott drew the Principle to the side. “It's just,” he said, staring at Stiles, “I think, maybe, it's something to do with his Mom.” The Principle frowned. “I mean,” Scott continued, “she... Stiles spent so long with her. Tried to help her. Did everything he could. I just... maybe seeing her like this,” he indicated Erica, “has brought up some of that.”

 

The Principle frowned. “I can't let him go in the ambulance,” he said. “I can call his father to come get him.”

 

Scott frowned, before nodding lightly.

 

The EMTs arrived, bustling Erica up and away on a stretcher. Her eyes had opened, but were dulled, vague. A common reaction, Stiles knew, after she had a seizure. She would go through a period of unconsciousness, followed by a period where she was awake, but not really aware, confused.

 

He reached out, trying to keep hold of her, but someone held him back. He closed his eyes, cringing, as his fingers left her shoulder, before letting his breath out in a rush. The bond was still there. It was faint, and weak, but there.

 

He didn't have to go through feeling it snap and break – die – once more. He wasn't sure he could live through that again.

 

“Stiles?” Scott asked. Blinking, Stiles realised that Scott was pressed up against his side, all concerned glances and worried eyes.

 

“I'm okay,” he muttered.

 

The nurse was staring down at the wet patch on the floor. She sighed. “Guess I'll have to clean this up,” she muttered, a hint of disgust in her voice.

 

Stiles rounded on her. “Get me a mop and bucket, then!” he snapped. 

 

Instinctively, she took a step back, eyes wide as she stared at him.

 

“You think you have it so bad,” Stiles hissed, “you think she does any of this on purpose? How dare you -”

 

“Stiles,” Scott repeated, half-worried, half-afraid.

 

“Mr Stilinski,” the Principle said, voice firm, “perhaps you'd best step outside.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles agreed. His head was ringing and his spark hummed beneath his skin, twisting. His vision was a little blurry, and he knew, intellectually, that he was likely going into shock. His skin pricked and he shivered.

 

Outside, in the corridor, a few students were still lingering.

 

“Hey!” Someone snapped as he stepped out. Looking up, Stiles spotted the boy with the phone. He tilted his head to the side. “What did you do to my phone?” He held said phone up angrily, jabbing at the screen, which was suspiciously blank.

 

Ignoring him, Stiles turned his back, walking down the corridor.

 

“Stiles!” Scott called after him. “Stiles!” When Stiles made no move to stop or turn around, Scott hurried after him, exiting the main doors just in time to see Stiles swing himself up onto his bike and take off down the road.

 

A moment later, Stiles' dad pulled up in the cruiser. “Scott?” he asked, worry etched across his face. “Where's Stiles? I got a call from the school.”

 

Scott shook his head. “He took off,” he said. “There... there was some girl at school. I, I'm not even sure what her name is. Evie or Erica or something. I – she had a seizure. Stiles got real upset by it. There were,” he scrubbed his hand over his face, appearing devastated by the cruelty he'd witnessed. “There were people laughing at her, someone else actually  _filmed_ it. Stiles, Stiles got mad. And he was acting weird, kind of out of it.” Scott stared up at the Sheriff. “I don't know what to do,” he said, voice cracking. “He's been so different since...” he let his voice trail off, not wanting to say it. The Sheriff nodded. “He wanted to go in the ambulance with her, but they wouldn't let him,” Scott explained, “and now he's just taken off,” he gestured towards the empty road in front of the school.

 

“The hospital?” the Sheriff suggested.

 

Scott shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.” He said. “He really seemed like he wanted to go with her. But I don't know why – far as I know, Stiles doesn't really know her either. I mean, I know she's in a couple of our classes, but that's it.”

 

“It's okay Scott,” the Sheriff assured him, pulling him in for a quick hug, before steering him towards the cruiser. “We'll find Stiles, and we'll figure this out.” He fished his cell phone out of his pocket. “Now, give your mom a call and let her know you're with me.” He pushed Scott to take a seat in the car. “I'll clear you both from lessons for the rest of the day. Be right back.”

 

-

 

Reaching the hospital, Stiles dumped his bike, not bothering to chain it up, as he raced inside. He could feel the adrenalin rushing through him, and knew he probably looked somewhat wild, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

 

Everything in him was telling him to get to Erica, to ensure that she was safe. To be there for her. To not let her die – again.

 

He knew it was just a seizure (there was nothing just about it). He knew that she had lived through dozens and dozens of them in the past (and future). He knew that she had lived through this one before – and that without the help of a pack-bond, as weak as it was.

 

But none of that knowledge seemed to matter.

 

He found her in a room not too far from Peter's, lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling. They'd changed her into a flimsy hospital gown, and there were tear-tracks on her cheeks. Nearby, Stiles could hear her parents speaking with a doctor.

 

Before he knew it, he'd slipped into her room, closing the door behind him and stepping up by the bed. Erica stiffened, hearing him come in, and her eyes shot to his – before widening in surprise.

 

“Stiles?” she asked. “What? What are you doing here?” Then her gaze hardened, eyes turning flinty. “Come to laugh?” she asked.

 

And oh, there was that familiar sneer. It made Stiles want to smile – to hear and see something just so Erica. But he held it back.

 

“No,” he said. “I came to see how you were.”  
  
“Why?”

 

Why had he come? Because he shared a pack-bond with her that compelled him to come? Because he'd seen her die (in the future) and didn't want to go through that again? Because it was the decent thing to do? Because she was his packmate? None of those answers seemed adequate enough, particularly when he doubted that she would believe any of them.

 

So instead he shrugged. Her eyes narrowed further.

 

“You can leave now,” she said.

 

“You, you are okay, aren't you?” Stiles blurted out, before shoving his hand across his mouth as though to stop the words from falling out.

 

Erica eyed him in wary confusion. 

 

“Fine,” she said. “I've lived through this before, you know.”

 

“I know,” he admitted.

 

Pushing herself upright, Erica stared at him. “I do have a question for you,” she said.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Catwoman?”

 

Stiles gaped at her. “What?”

 

“You called me Catwoman,” she said. “I heard you – it took me ages to place your voice, but I know it was you. You were talking to someone else here in the hospital, and you called me Catwoman. Why?”

 

Gaping at her, Stiles flailed his hands around through the air for a moment, at a loss for words. Erica didn't look impressed. So he decided to go for the truth.

 

“Because you are,” he said. Something in his expression must have told her that he was being serious, because she sat back with a frown. But it wasn't a frown that said she didn't believe him, more one that said she wasn't sure what to do with what he'd said.

 

Glancing around the room nervously, Stiles tapped his fingers against the side of the bed. He opened his mouth a couple of times before closing it, realising that he really didn't know what to say to her. Not to this version of her, anyway. The one who didn't know him yet. Didn't know anything about werewolves. Hadn't been through any of the things they'd been through together.

 

“Peter!” he exclaimed suddenly, turning back to her.

  
Erica frowned. “What?”

 

“Peter,” Stiles repeated. “That's who I was talking to. Peter Hale. He's in the long-term care ward, just down there,” he waved his hand towards the door, in the direction of Peter's room.

 

“Long-term care?”

 

“Yeah, he, uh, he's in a coma. Has been for a while.”

 

Erica nodded. 

 

“So, uh, so, they going to let you out of here soon?” he asked. Erica shrugged.

 

“I doubt it,” she said, eyes still slightly narrowed as though trying to figure him out. “They usually keep me for a while at least.” She grimaced, poking at her hospital gown. “I hate these things.”

 

“Oh!” said Stiles. Grabbing his backpack, he brought it around, pulling the zip open. “Clothes!” he declared happily, pulling out the spare set of clothing he'd had Scott bring to school for him. He grinned manically at her. “They're clean,” he added. “I promise. And gotta be better than that gown. Those things never quite close properly at the back.”

 

Erica blushed. Actually blushed. For a moment, Stiles was so taken aback that he didn't know what to do. So he went with his default, and babbled.

 

“I mean, I know they're guys clothes and all, but still, better than that, right?” He grinned, shaking the clothes at her. “And I mean, I'm pretty sure they're not going to give you your clothes back just yet.” Erica's face fell and she looked down, the blush growing, spreading, but Stiles knew it was now one of mortification. “But the way I figure it,” he continued desperately, “you'll look better in these than I ever would, anyway. I mean, you look good in anything. I mean, you can pull anything off. You don't actually need clothes to make you look good. Not that I'm suggesting you not wear clothes. Clothes are good. Or not. Depending on what you're into. 'Cos if you're not into them, then that is cool, too. I'm totally not judging here. No judging at all. I just -”

 

Erica laughed. It bubbled up out of her and Stiles froze, staring at her in surprise.

 

_This,_ he thought fiercely,  _this is why I'm here. So that Peter can heal. And Erica can laugh. So that Isaac can feel safe, and Boyd can know friendship._

 

He'd never heard her laugh like that before (past or future). It was beautiful.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his head. “I, uh, I tend to babble a bit, sometimes. You can, uh, you can feel free to stop me at anytime. Anytime. I'm serious. Stopping me is a good thing. A really good thing. And totally worth your while when I get started and don't seem to stop. 'Cos that happens, sometimes, and -”

 

Erica laughed once more.

 

Grinning, Stiles plopped down on the bed next to her. 

 

“Thank you,” she said. Reaching out she grabbed onto his spare clothing. “And you're right, it is better than a hospital gown.” She bit her lip, staring at him. “I didn't think you knew who I was,” she admitted.

 

Stiles glanced down. “I, uh, not one of my best moments,” he said. He knew he wasn't making much sense, but really didn't know how to explain it to her. He glanced up. “I'd like to get to know you,” he said. “If that's okay.”

 

This time, when she blushed, he felt the alarm bells going off in his head. “Sure,” she said.

 

“I should warn you,” he continued, feeling the press of words rising up in him once more as he scrabbled for something to say. Something that wouldn't harm her already severely low self-esteem, but would also mean that he wouldn't be leading her on (he remember now, her telling him that she'd had a crush on him – it was a foreign thought, after everything they'd been through, all they'd survived together, that she'd ever thought of him like that, but she had). “That I can be annoying. Like, really annoying. I talk a lot – point in case. And about anything. Everything. I will tell you things you never wanted to know. And in great detail.” 

 

Erica just continued to smile shyly, staring up at him in something like awe. 

 

“About – about things like boys!” he declared. “Because I like them. Boys, that is. Well, more men really. Ones with muscles. And personalities – I'm not completely shallow. I mean, it's not that I dislike women. I like them, a lot. But I'm pretty sure I like men more. Like a 80/20 thing, biased towards men, rather than the 50/50 thing I used to think it was.”

 

Erica laughed once more. There was something in her eyes that told Stiles she understood, and while it hurt, she wouldn't hold it against him.

 

“It's all Derek's fault,” he continued, words spilling over each other in their rush to get out. “I mean, where does he get off, walking around with those perfect muscles and that crazy stubble and those eyes – have you ever seen eyes like that? I mean -”

 

“Who are you?”

 

Looking up, Stiles stared at the couple standing in the doorway. Erica's parents.

 

“Uh -”

 

“This is Stiles,” Erica said, a soft smile (one Stiles had never seen before) on her face.

 

“Right, right,” Stiles said, pushing himself to his feet and wiping his hands on his jeans before holding his right one out for a handshake. “Sorry,” he said. “I just stopped by to check on Erica.”

 

“How do you know Erica?” her father asked.

 

“School,” Erica replied. “Stiles made sure they got the nurse this morning when...” her voice trailed off and she glanced down.

 

“Hey,” said Stiles, reaching out and nudged against her shoulder. “Don't sweat it. I mean, we all have our burdens to bear, right. Mine goes by the name of Scott McCall and looks like a puppy.” For a moment Erica looked as though she wasn't sure whether she wanted to yell at him or laugh – the laughter won out.

 

Shooting a glance at her parents, Stiles saw that they appeared dumbfounded by her laughter. A warm feeling of pride blossomed in his chest.

 

“Anyway,” he said, “I should let you rest. Get better soon, Catwoman.”

 

“Sure thing, Batman,” she replied. Grinning, Stiles held his hand up for a high-five, which Erica granted, before nodding to her parents and slipping out of her room.

 

Erica watched him go with a thoughtful look on her face. Reaching up, she unconsciously rubbed over her chest where something warm and bright curled within her. She wasn't sure why, or even if it was a good idea, but something inside her told her to trust him.

 

-

 

“Ugh!” Stiles exclaimed flopping backwards onto Peter's bed. The werewolf made no sound or move, but Stiles reached up to pat against his calf anyway. He made a face. “I think I did something stupid,” he said. “Something to do with my spark. Something I've never done before – and I'm not even sure how I did it.

 

“But I think I made a pack-bond with Erica.” He shook his head. “I didn't even know that could be forced like that... only maybe it can't, maybe it was just opening up the old pack-bond I had with her. Only that would have had to have been one-sided, me to her, because she never really met me before. I was the only one to come back in time.” He groaned, turning his head to look at Peter.

 

“Sometimes I scare myself,” he admitted. “Some of the things we did. I did. It was war, and we were, I was, scared. And I wanted to survive. But my spark – some of the things I did...” his voice trailed off and he stared at the ceiling. 

 

Suddenly, Stiles sat up, eyes widening. “Oh crap!” he exclaimed. “I think I just came out to Erica!” He turned wide-eyes on Peter. “I just told her I like guys! And that it's all Derek's fault! Which it is – honestly, abs like that should not be legal. And really, do you think you could have a word to your nephew about the amount of time he spends wandering around without a shirt on? Does he even do that yet?” Stiles waved one hand, brushing that thought away. “Then again,” he added, tilting his head to one side, “don't say anything. Lots of people will thank you if you just let him keep doing it.”

 

He groaned, flopping dramatically backwards once more and pressing his hands to his face, so that his next words were muffled. “And now I'm fourteen again! He's never going to look at me now! This is so unfair!” There was a pause. “I can still admire his abs, though,” he decided.

 

-

 

In the darkness, Peter felt the bond form, tenuous and wavering, like an echo reaching him through another bond. The echo of another, pulsing down and pressing against him. He rolled, stretching into the feeling, holding it tight and pulling it towards him. Warmth and care and love and pack. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you are aware - this is Derek/Stiles preslash. And that is *all* it is going to be (unless it gets so long that Stiles turns eighteen).  
> That means that Stiles will think Derek is hot, and might even mention this at times, but it will be background (feel free to ignore it if that isn't your thing), and nothing is going to happen between them for a loooooong time. (I figure it's a bit like someone saying an actor or a teacher is hot).  
> I've deliberately made Stiles fourteen in this fic, which precludes anything happening between them. If anyone is interested, I'm happy to share my reasoning for why I think nothing would ever happen until Stiles was *at least* eighteen. (I'm also not at all interested in writing a relationship between them until Stiles is older).  
> But I wanted to put this note in here so that you know that this fic isn't suddenly going to verge into a relationship between Stiles and Derek - it won't. (But Stiles does think Derek is hot).


	10. glad to be back outside

Life continued on. Stiles returned to school (after assuring both his father and Scott that he was _fine!_ ), and after a few days, Erica did, too. At which point in time, mouth half-full of curly fries (he'd made an emergency food stop on his way to school), Stiles informed both Scott and Isaac that Erica was their friend now.

 

Scott accepted this with his usual happy exuberance. Isaac frowned, but nodded, eyes thoughtful as he watched Erica make her way towards the entrance steps. Leaving behind all pretense at subtlety, Stiles jumped to his feet from the small table where they'd been sitting, flinging his arm up into the air and waving it about eagerly.

 

“Catwoman!” he yelled out.

 

Turning, startled, Erica stared at him, her gaze narrowing in thought before moving onto Scott and Isaac. Scott grinned, beckoning her over towards them.

 

“Hey,” Stiles said with a smile, patting the bench next to him as Erica approached. “We're going over the math homework – it's not exactly Scott's best subject.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Scott shook his head. “I do better in English,” he told Erica, before holding out his hand. “I'm Scott.”

 

“Isaac,” the other boy added shortly. Stiles smiled proudly at them, before growing impatient and tugging Erica down to sit beside him.

 

“How about you?” he asked.

 

Blinking, Erica stared around herself. These people, these boys, they  _wanted_ her to sit with them? She shrugged, biting her lip. “I don't have the best attendance record,” she admitted, “it makes it hard to keep up sometimes.”

 

Stiles frowned, mind working. He knew that, before she was turned, Erica had been doing better with her seizures (being Stiles, and having spent so much time in the hospital – first because of his mom, then because of Melissa – had meant that he had pretty much known how to find whatever information he was after). But this was two years before that. So perhaps that hadn't happened yet.

 

He shrugged. “Then you can study with us,” he said, pushing his book towards her with another smile.

 

Hesitantly, Erica leant forward, eyes darting around, waiting for the laughter, the mocking. But Stiles just continued to smile, and Scott's face was so open and eager and happy. Isaac, she felt she could understand better, he was also wary – but wary of her, which was strange. Plus, there was that weird feeling in her chest, warm and bright, that seemed to tug her towards Stiles. So she leaned forward as well, bending her head over the book.

 

-

 

“And this is Peter!” Stiles declared with a flourish as he half-spun, half-tripped into Peter's room, arms waving wildly through the air. Peter was sitting in his chair, staring unblinkingly at the window. Going over, Stiles pushed it open, letting the soft afternoon breeze in, bringing with it the clean scent of the world after rain.

 

“The one you were talking to when you first called me Catwoman?” Erica asked.

 

Stiles paused a moment, wondering if it counted as the first time if it was the first time in the past, although he'd already called her that in the future, so it wasn't the first time for him, but that was the future, this was the past... he settled for a shrug and grin.

 

“Hmm,” Erica said, stepping forward. Her hand reached up, pressing unconsciously against her chest as she stared at Peter. It was softer, fainter, but that warm glow seemed to curl towards Peter as well. She glanced around the room, before frowning. “Who decorated in here?” she asked.

 

“I did!” Stiles replied proudly, before correcting himself at a glare from Scott (and Isaac – although a much smaller one, it was a still a glare, which Stiles counted as a win and did a mental fistpump for). “Well, we did,” he gestured around at them. “Before that, it was pretty much bare and empty.”

 

Erica frowned. “Boys,” she said. 

 

“Hey!” Stiles protested. “Peter likes it, right Peter?” he addressed the comatose man. Shaking her head, Erica stepped further in the room. Her eyes fell on Peter's extensive scarring, but she made no comment, simply appearing to become more determined. Stiles couldn't help but keep beaming at these hints of the Erica he knew shining through. 

 

“Can we take him outside today?” Isaac asked. Spinning, Stiles turned to stare at him, before nodding.

 

“Sure,” he said. He pointed at Scott. “You and me,” he said. “Wheelchair.” He could feel a giddy sense of anticipation and not-quite-adrenalin racing through him. It was amazing to think about sneaking around the hospital without there actually being any real danger.

 

Stiles' grin was infectious and soon Scott was nodding, following Stiles' overly melodramatic creep as they slid out of the room.

 

Shaking his head, Isaac turned to Peter. “Seeing as Stiles didn't do so properly,” he said, “let me introduce you to Erica Reyes.” He motioned to Erica. Then he turned to her. “Erica, this is Peter Hale. Or, if you prefer, Uncle Peter. He and Stiles' Dad are friends, so Stiles has pretty much adopted him as his uncle. Now that Stiles appears to have decided to adopt you into his circle of friends too, well, we come here after school sometimes, and just hang out and do homework.” He paused. “Peter's a good listener,” he admitted. “If you ever need that.” He eyes were too knowing for Erica's comfort, but then he dropped it, so she let it be.

 

“I like the artwork,” she commented, staring at a stick-figure drawing taped to the wall. Isaac laughed.

 

“Those are Stiles',” he said. Erica hummed. Reaching into her schoolbag, she pulled out a thick artbook, before opening it and ripping out a sheet. She held it up next to the stick-figure picture. Isaac gaped.

 

“That's really good,” he said. Erica blushed, glancing over at him.

 

“Thanks,” she replied, biting her lip. “I like to,” she shrugged, pressing her hand against the picture of a tree, branches waving against the sky. “When I'm not having a fit,” she said, “I'm okay at it.”

 

“Okay!” Stiles exclaimed entering the room, “that's awesome! Don't you think so?” he asked Peter. “Look at that! A skill we never knew she had!” He let go of the wheelchair he and Scott had 'liberated', rushing over to grab some tape and affix Erica's picture to the wall. “There,” he said, stepping back with a smile.

 

 

It took only a little bit of work to get Peter into the chair, and then they were wheeling him out of the room, schoolbags piled on his lap.

 

“Are you sure that's okay?” Erica asked, frowning at the bags.

 

“It's fine,” Stiles replied with a wave of his hand. “Right, Peter?” he asked, patting Peter on the shoulder.

 

There was a second wheelchair by the door to the room.

 

“Um,” Erica began.

 

“Why did you get a second chair?” Isaac asked.

 

“Why? What do you mean why? Wheelchair races, of course!” Stiles replied. Grabbing the chair, he spun it in place, before turning to Erica and giving a half-bow, complete with flourish of his hand. “My lady?” he asked, gesturing to the chair.

 

Biting her lip, Erica stared at him, but her eyes lit up. This, Stiles recognised. The Erica who, despite everything stacked against her, liked a challenge, loved it even. And was willing to give anything a go.

 

“All right,” she whispered, gingerly getting into the chair. Isaac watched with wide eyes.

 

“Ready?” Stiles asked, glancing over at Scott, who was lining himself up carefully behind Peter's chair. 

 

“Ready,” Scott agreed.

 

“Go!” they both exclaimed together. Then they were off, tearing down the hallway as fast as they could go, spinning and skidding as they hit the first corner. Erica let out a short squeal, before slapping her hand over her mouth and laughing breathlessly.

 

Throwing his head back, Stiles let out his own laugh. Incredulous, Isaac raced after them, reaching out just in time to stop Scott and Peter from overturning as they took the second corner at a dead run. A nurse stepping out of a nearby room's eyes widened as she hastily stepped backwards.

 

“Sorry!” Isaac cried.

 

“Here,” Scott gasped, shoving the chair's handles at Isaac as he slowed down, gasping for breath and scrabbling for his inhaler in his pockets. Nodding, Isaac took the chair, putting on a burst of speed to catch back up to Stiles and Erica as they reached the door to outside (it was conveniently open and Isaac suspected Stiles and Scott had done more than just get the chairs).

 

With a whoop, they crossed the line of the door, out into the small garden at the back of the hospital.

 

“We won!” Stiles declared, throwing his hands up in the air and doing a victory dance in place. Doubled over in her chair, Erica laughed so hard there were tears running from her eyes. 

 

Glancing over at her, Stiles grinned, before turning to Peter. “Beat you,” he said, patting the older man's shoulder. For a moment, he thought he saw a small smile crease Peter's lips, before dismissing it as wishful thinking. 

 

Panting, Scott came up behind them. He was puffed and his face was red, but a quick check showed that he was breathing fine. Grinning, Stiles clapped him on the shoulder, before leading the group over a small grassy area that was just outside Peter's open window.

 

They tumbled down to the ground, Stiles chattering incessantly. Around them, birds sang and flitted about through the nearby trees and few small shrubs. Slumping against the ground, Stiles lay back, breathing in deep the scent of grass and past rain and earth. He smiled over at Peter.  


“Bet you're glad to be back outside, huh?” he asked. Then he glanced at Isaac. “Good idea,” he said. “Very good idea.” The other boy grinned back.

 

-

 

They were halfway through their homework, Erica slowly losing her shyness between Stiles' teasing and Scott's earnestness and Isaac's eager acceptance, when Stiles heard it. He glanced up with a frown.

 

“Is that a phone?” he asked.

 

Isaac blinked. “It's the first Tuesday of the month,” he said.

 

“So?” Erica asked.

 

“Oh,” Stiles gasped, sitting up, his mouth falling open. “It is!” He scrambled to his feet, looking between the window, through which the sound of the ringing phone came clearly, and the path back to the door into the hospital and the hallways he'd have to traverse to get to the room. He was a good runner, he'd had to be one – in the future – so had kept it up out of habit ever since, but he didn't think he'd make it in time. “Oh well,” he said.

 

And then he was climbing in through the window.

 

“Stiles!” Scott gasped.

 

“What is it?” Erica asked once more.

 

Isaac turned to her. “Stiles said that Peter's niece and nephew ring the first Tuesday of every month,” he explained. 

 

There was a cry of triumph from inside and they glanced over to see Stiles with the phone snatched up and placed to his ear.

 

“Hello,” Stiles declared happily as he picked up the phone. 

 

“Stiles,” Laura's cheerful voice greeted him. “Still hanging out with Peter, then?”

 

“Of course,” Stiles scoffed. “I admit, his conversational skills are a little lacking, but I've heard that's pretty much par for the course for those in his position.” He wandered back towards the window, slinging one leg out of it. “And his listening hasn't changed any since we spoke last.”

 

Laura laughed, before pausing. “What are you doing?” she asked.

 

“Hmm?” Stiles asked, turning so he could half-slide, half-fall out of the window. Scott face-palmed at his actions. “Climbing out the window.”

 

“More like falling out,” Erica muttered.

 

“Really?” Laura asked. “Why?”

 

“Oh, 'cos we're outside today,” Stiles happily informed her. “We had a wheelchair race on the way, too. Erica and I won.”

 

Laura laughed once more. “Sounds fun,” she said, “but it doesn't exactly explain the window.”

 

“Quickest way to get the phone,” Stiles said. “Didn't want you to hang up before I got to it.” He let his body flop the rest of the way down and onto the ground. 

 

“Right,” Laura agreed, but didn't say anything else about it. “How's Peter?”

 

“Lazing around again,” Stiles informed her. “I swear, he's the laziest guy I know,” he grinned over at Peter to take the sting out of his words. “We have now decorated his room with bookshelves – and books – so many books...” his voice trailed off and a distant look entered his eyes. 

 

Rolling his own eyes, Scott reached over, taking the phone from Stiles. “Hey,” he said, “this is Scott. You'll have to forgive Stiles, but he gets kind of weird around old books, and right now he thinks Peter's library is the best thing since the Internet.”

 

“That's true,” Stiles admitted, even as he scowled at Scott for taking away the phone. He made grabby hand motions for it, but Scott just rolled his eyes once more, turning back to his conversation with Laura.

 

“Although, I suppose Peter might think Stiles' fascination is good as it means that he doesn't always babble at him, but sometimes reads to him from the books instead. Anyway, I'm sure you'd like to talk to Peter, so I'll put the phone near him.”

 

“Thank you, Scott,” Laura said.

 

 

-

 

 

“Stiles!” the voice demanded.

 

Jerking upright from where he had been sprawled over the ground, head resting against Peter's feet as he read, Stiles found himself flinging his book away as he lunged towards the phone.

 

Erica and Isaac watched with wide-eyes at his reaction.

 

“Derek,” Stiles breathed, bringing the phone to his ear, “what is it -”

 

“We've finished,” Derek cut in. Stiles bit his lip, nodding. Right, he thought, they've finished. Derek doesn't even know who I am, he reminded himself. This isn't a pack emergency. This is the past, where Derek doesn't know me yet.

 

“Right, right,” he agreed. There was a pause. Holding his breath, Stiles listened to Derek breathing. He could hear the moment that Derek took a breath to speak once more and it pushed him into action. “So, have a good talk?” he asked, cringing inside and berating his conversational skills.

 

“Yes.” Right, that was Derek all right. Short and to the point. 

 

“Umm...” Why was it he couldn't think of anything to say? Or perhaps it wasn't so much that he couldn't think of anything to say, but more that he could think of too many things, but they were all things he would tell the Derek of the future, not this Derek. 

 

“Thanks,” Derek grumped out and Stiles found his mouth falling open in surprise.

 

“What?” he gasped out.

 

“Thanks,” Derek ground out once more. “For helping us talk to Peter.”

 

“You're welcome, dude.”

 

“I'm not a dude.”

 

“Uh, yeah, you are,” Stiles said, “unless you're hiding something from us.” He could hear faint laughter in the background that he assumed was Laura.

 

“I'm a man,” Derek replied. 

 

Stiles grinned. “Sure,” he agreed. “You keep telling yourself that, Sourwolf.” He glanced over at Peter with a roll of his eyes to share his glee.

 

“What did you call me?” Derek asked.

 

“Uh, Sourwolf? It's a nickname. Like Erica is Catwoman. You have heard of nicknames before, haven't you?”

 

“He has,” Laura's voice assured him, sounding close to the phone once more. There was a hint of glee in her tone that had Stiles grinning. He was sure he and Laura would get on spectacularly once they actually met.

 

“Whatever,” Derek replied. There was a pause. “Goodbye Stiles.” The phone clicked off.

 

Lowering it from his ear, Stiles turned to grin at the others. “I think I'm growing on him,” he said.

 

Incredulous looks were his only reply. 

 

 

-

 

 

He could smell it as they got closer. Could feel the rush of giddy happiness around him as they ran and laughed, and then,  _then_ , they were outside. He stretched, letting the scents wash over him, the sun warm his fur, before curling up contentedly to listen as his pack chatted happily around him. He could pick out words here and there, their voices rising and falling. The soft sound of pages rustling. Soon, it was joined by other voices, voices he knew. He couldn't feel them nearby like he could the others, but he could hear them. His pack. His family. It was enough. For now.


	11. someone who doesn't want to be saved

“Dude!” Scott gasped, staring at Isaac. “What happened?”

 

Lifting his head from the book he'd been reading (conveniently borrowed from Peter's library), Stiles frowned. A dark bruise lined the edge of Isaac's hairline, and another peeked up from the neck of his shirt as he moved. His knuckles were swollen and a quick glance showed that his fingernails were ragged and broken.

 

Stiles swallowed, pushing back the bile that rose in the back of his throat.

 

“Nothing,” Isaac replied. He shrugged. “I got into a fight.”

 

“With what?”

 

Stiles could have hugged Scott for his innocent, horrified questioning.

 

“Never mind,” Scott added. “Come on, come with me.” He reached out towards Isaac, obviously to take his hand and drag him away, Stiles thought. But Isaac flinched, jerking back. Scott froze, hand still extended.

 

It was at that moment that Erica joined them, stepping up to the table. “Hey,” she greeted them. Her voice was still soft, but held a confidence that had been lacking before. It was Monday morning and they had once more commandeered the table out the front of the school, sitting around it in the bright sunlight as they finished up homework before their first class of the day.

 

Stiles could have cursed himself. He'd thought Isaac would be fine. That things would be fine. That they'd all be safe. They'd spent the weekend hanging out – first at Peter's, where Stiles had borrowed a few more books, informed Peter quietly that he was 'working on a plan for Boyd', and Erica had made some changes in décor to the room.

 

Then they'd all trouped back to Stiles' where, as his father was working, they had taken the time to make home-made pizzas, before having a movie marathon that ended with them all sprawled out over the floor, half-asleep.

 

They'd woken the next morning to Stiles' father standing above them and shaking his head. With a, “Just clean up in here sometime, huh.” The Sheriff had left them to go get his own rest.

 

After breakfast, they'd taken another trip to the hospital, taking a number of boardgames with them (Erica was scarily competitive and Stiles was certain that it had been a half-awed, half-impressed look Isaac had shot her at that revelation). Peter lost, but Stiles simply informed him that, should he want to win, he would have to wake up and actually participate properly.

 

Then Melissa had stopped by, bringing them all lunch, and querying the status of their homework. Which resulted in Melissa chivvying them all into the car once she got off shift and driving them back to the McCall's where they completed their homework and ate dinner, before finally parting so that they could get ready for school the next day.

 

With all of that, Stiles figured that his (admittedly not-too-amazing) plan to keep Isaac busy and away from home so that he would be safe, was succeeding. He hadn't thought there was time for Isaac to be hurt.

 

He was wrong.

 

His Spark shifted beneath his skin and Stiles clenched his hands, hoping that he wasn't going to have any of the embarrassing incidents that had occurred in the past (future), when he'd first started training his Spark. He really didn't want to set the table on fire – he still hadn't figured out how, or even what, to tell them about what had happened to him (or even if he ever should).

 

“We should take you to the hospital,” Scott said, breaking Stiles out of his thoughts. Stiles' hands itched. Itched to reach out and press against Isaac the way he had Erica. To encourage his healing and help him.

 

But he couldn't. Not yet. Much as he wanted Isaac safe, and healed, they needed this in order to make Isaac properly safe.

 

“I'm fine,” Isaac replied, shaking his head as he stepped back from Scott. He still sat down at the table, but further away.

 

“At least just let my mom have a look at you,” Scott insisted. “You know she won't charge you or anything. But that's gotta hurt. She can make sure it's not too bad and -”

 

“I said I'm fine!” Isaac snapped.

 

The bell rang. Hesitantly, Erica stood up, glancing between them. “We need to get to class,” she said. There was a slight waver to her voice that suggested she wasn't entirely sure what she should or could say. Stiles understood. Erica understood Isaac in a way that Scott couldn't. She understood the need to pretend that everything was okay. But she was also smart enough to understand, or guess, what she was seeing. And want to help.

 

Stiles doubted that Scott had even figured it out yet.

 

“Right,” Isaac agreed, springing up and hurrying away from the table. Scott stared after him, mouth hanging open and brow creased in confusion.

 

“I just wanted to help,” he said.

 

“I know, buddy,” Stiles agreed, clapping him on the shoulder. As he did so, Stiles felt his Spark pushing, and suddenly his packbond with Scott slotted back into place, the withered end in his chest – all that had been left when Scott had died – with the faint tendril that had been slowly growing between them, suddenly pulsing and expanding. Scott jumped as though Stiles had given him a static shock.

 

“Dude,” he said. The second bell rang.

 

Sharing a look, Stiles and Scott rushed into class.

 

 

-

 

 

Stiles spent his morning ready to vibrate out of his skin. The part of him that recognised Isaac as pack, the part that had spent years fighting for and with the other boy, hummed and pulsed, pushing him to take action. The problem was, he wasn't sure what action he could take.

 

He saw his opportunity at lunch, as he and Isaac passed an empty classroom on their way to the cafeteria. Nudging Isaac inside as carefully and non-violently as possible, Stiles turned to face him.

 

Isaac frowned, staring back at him. “Stiles,” he said.

 

“Isaac,” Stiles replied. He bit his lip for a moment, looking for something to say. Then he shrugged, figuring that being blunt had often worked for him in the past. “I'm sorry,” he said.

 

Isaac lost his wary look for a moment, exchanging it for a confused one. “What?” he asked.

 

“I'm sorry,” Stiles repeated. “I shouldn't have let you go home last night.” He paused, gauging Isaac's reaction. The other boy shifted on his feet, wary look back in full force. The part of Stiles that was pack whined in the back of his throat, eager to take away that fear. “I'm sorry I didn't do something sooner,” he continued.

 

“What?” And that was panic on Isaac's face. “Do something?” He asked. “You can't – there's nothing – you can't do anything!” He exclaimed.

 

Raising his hands against Isaac's panic, Stiles took a step back. “Hey,” he said. “I'm not gonna hurt you.” It sounded inane to his own eyes, but Isaac appeared beyond reasoning with.

 

“I'm fine,” Isaac insisted. “Everything's fine! You can't -”

 

The door opened behind them.

 

“Stilinski.” It was drawled out with such a smug, superior tone, that Stiles was spinning around to look before he'd even thought about it. Stepping inside, Jackson hip-checked the door to shut it behind him once more. “What are you doing?” Jackson asked.

 

Stiles gaped at him. He doubted that it was particularly attractive, but he wasn't sure what else he was supposed to do in that moment. Jackson – well, he hadn't planned for or expected his interference at all.

 

Jackson shot Isaac a look, and for a moment, Stiles thought he saw a gentling around Jackson's eyes that he was certain had only started once the other boy had been forced to become pack in the future. Then it was gone, so fast that Stiles half-thought he'd imagined it. But the fact was, Jackson was there. Why?

 

“Jackson,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I could ask you the same thing, Stilinski,” the older boy replied. “Isn't harassing other students against your nerd code, or something?”

 

Energy hummed beneath his skin, feeling ready to leap out from him and form a pack connection even without physical contact. Stiles curled his fingers into fists, pushing the energy back.

 

“Look, Jackson,” he tried. “I'm sure you wouldn't understand. Isaac -”

 

“Has told you that he's fine,” Jackson interrupted, staring down at his perfectly manicured fingernails as if in total disinterest. “So why are you still annoying him?” He glanced up at Stiles, and his gaze was sharp, warning.

 

“Stiles,” Isaac said. “I'm fine, really. And I'll stay over at Jackson's tonight.”

 

Stiles' head whipped around towards Isaac. That, that was something he didn't know about. Hadn't known about. Had this happened last time?

 

“What?” he asked.

 

“Lahey and I are neighbours,” Jackson drawled out. “Which has forced us to be in proximity before. Sometimes he even stays over.” He shrugged as if it was no big deal, but already Stiles could feel his mind working, rearranging the pieces of the puzzle he'd thought he'd known inside-out.

 

Sometimes Isaac stayed over at Jackson's. Sometimes, when things were bad at home, Isaac would go to Jackson's for a place of safety. It both blew his mind and suddenly made sense of the all the little things in Jackson and Isaac's relationship that had never quite fit before. The way that Jackson, all loud-mouthed declarations of the opposite, had always watched Isaac carefully, the way an older brother would a younger. Never close, not in the way Scott and Stiles were, or even how Scott and Isaac became. But little things that had suggested something more than complete indifference between them – before that had faded into the strong packbonds they all felt.

 

But still...

 

“That's not good enough!” Stiles burst out with. “Hiding and running and never being safe.” He was aware enough to know that he wasn't just talking about Isaac's current situation. “We can do better than that,” he insisted.

 

Jackson sighed, as though dealing with someone who was incredibly thick. “Sometimes,” he drawled, “it's all you can do.” His eyes flickered to Isaac and then back to Stiles. “You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved,” he said.

 

Stiles frowned, wanting to argue, but Isaac put his hand on Stiles' arm, stopping him.

 

“Please Stiles,” he said. “If you say anything, they'll take my father away.”

 

Stiles opened his mouth again, wanting to say that that was the point – of course that was the point. Isaac's father should be taken away, so that Isaac could be _safe_. 

 

“He's all I have left,” Isaac admitted.

 

And that punched Stiles in the gut. Like Stiles, Isaac had lost his mother. And, Stiles knew, he'd also lost his older brother. He didn't like it, but he could sort of see how that would leave Isaac wanting to stay with the only family he had left, no matter what that meant for him.

 

“Isaac,” he said. Isaac forced a strained smile. 

 

“I'm fine,” he insisted, letting go of Stiles' arm and stepping towards the door. Immediately, Stiles reached out, placing his hand on Isaac's shoulder. His Spark rushed, shooting up his arm and out his hand, pulsing down the thin tendril linking them and widening it, growing it, until a full packbond glowed between them.

 

Isaac paused, freezing in place as though he had felt something. Stiles resisted the urge to clench his fist and let go, to run away somewhere to try and get his Spark under control. Instead,

 

“Please,” he said, “let us help you.”

 

“I'll think about it,” Isaac replied, and then he vanished out of the room.

 

“Loser,” Jackson said, scowling at Stiles before turning on his heel and also exiting. 

 

Shaking, Stiles ran his hands over his head. He bit his lip, chewing on it as he wondered what he should do.

 

 

-

 

 

Slumping down into his seat, staring at his lunch, Stiles sighed. Beside him, Boyd froze, going completely still.

 

“Pass the salt?” Stiles asked, before looking up and realising what he'd done. He also froze, staring back at Boyd. “Uh, hey,” he said.

 

The other boy frowned, staring at him. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  
“Eating lunch,” Stiles replied, forcing a grin onto his face, despite the mass of emotions roiling through him and the indecision that clogged his mind. This, this was something he could do.

 

Boyd frowned, but slowly handed over the salt. That was okay, Stiles could work with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (you may have noticed that the chapter lengths have decreased lately - I've done that partly because what I've planned for the chapters I've managed to cover in that length, and also partly to try and get back to posting more regularly)
> 
> (also, I'm a sucker for redeeming characters, so this chapter got part of my headcanon for why Jackson was such a douche about Isaac in the show, and also why Isaac stayed with his father until his father died. I mean, really, instead of telling anyone, Isaac got the bite so that he could be strong enough to stay at home - at least, I think that's one way of looking at it)


	12. things were going to change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you have been wondering if I abandoned this fic. Obviously, I haven't. However, as it has been quite some time since I posted anything, I thought you deserved a bit of an explanation.  
> My laptop died - as in, completely kaput. Everything gone. All my half-finished chapters, all my notes (which, for this fic in particular were quite extensive), everything.  
> This left me rather upset, and also floundering a bit as I'd planned out quite a number of chapters for this fic and had to try and write it from memory.  
> I'm afraid I don't think I quite remembered how I originally had it going, but hopefully it's still interesting enough.  
> Anway, enough about me and the lack of updates recently, and on to the fic!

 

Time passed.

Erica, Isaac and Scott, seeing how Stiles had sat with Boyd, quickly integrated the other teen into their group. Which meant that it wasn't long until Boyd had earned an introduction to Peter and could be found, along with the others, sprawled out all over Peter's room of an afternoon, completing his homework.

Stiles was particularly proud of the fact that, one time, he arrived to find Boyd sitting on the edge of the bed and quietly speaking. He'd ducked out of the room before hearing much of what Boyd had been saying. He didn't think it was his business. Although he'd heard the word 'Alicia' and knew enough about Boyd from his past - future - whatever, that he figured he had a pretty good idea as to what Boyd was telling Peter.

It did give him pause, standing outside in the corridor, with his Spark humming contentedly under his skin. Stiles wondered what would happen when Peter woke. Just how much information on them, from them, would he have?

If Peter woke and, well, wasn't sane - then that could be incredibly dangerous. Shivering, Stiles felt his Spark press against his skin, buzzing just beneath the surface. He would do what he had to - as always - but he wasn't sure that he could fight against Peter the way he had in the past. Not when he already considered Peter - future and present - as Pack.

Biting his lip, Stiles reached down into where his Pack Bonds had settled, mostly now strong and healthy. Scott, Isaac, Erica, Boyd. And Peter - Peter, whose Bond had formed seemingly without any help from his Spark. Peter's Bond, he found, was fully formed and healthy, pulsing between them. It hadn't formed like the other bonds, forced into fullness by his Spark, but rather seemed to have simply slotted into place over time.

Shaking his head, Stiles pushed himself away from the wall. He would give Boyd some time, maybe go visit Melissa, before coming back and joining the other teen in Peter's room.

  
Wandering through the corridors of the hospital, Stiles smiled. He could barely believe how much time had passed since he had returned to the past. In some ways, it felt as though he'd done nothing, and yet, yet, he had the Pack forming around him.

Stiles frowned. Not all of the Pack. Despite his new knowledge about Jackson, Stiles still had not found a way to include the obnoxious teen that Jackson would put up with. Attempts to greet him had been met with cold stares and derisive comments. Lydia, similarly, saw no reason to join their small group. Danny, well, Danny just looked confused whenever Stiles approached him (although, Danny being Danny, he wasn't cruel in his rebuffs the way Jackson could be)

At times, Stiles wondered if there was a way to get them to join - when in the past (future), it had been circumstances rather than anything else that had forced them together.

No, he decided, with a shake of his head, he wouldn't give up. They would be Pack - all of them (even Derek and Laura), eventually.

Reaching the front desk, Stiles glanced around, looking for Melissa.

"Hey Stiles," Carrie said, looking up from her computer.

"Hey Carrie," he replied. "You're looking particularly beautiful today." Rolling her eyes, Carrie crossed her arms.

"And what are you after?" she asked.

Affecting a wounded expression, Stiles placed his hand over his heart. "Why would you think I'm after something?" he asked.

Shaking her head with a laugh, Carrie uncrossed her arms and leant forward. "You've been coming here for a while, Stiles," she said, "long enough for us to get to know you. Besides, I've heard stories from Melissa."

"What?" Stiles exclaimed. "No way! Not Melissa. Why would she do that?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Melissa asked, making her way over to the desk. Stiles affected a jump, even though he'd heard her coming (leftover instincts from the future).

"Awww, c'mon Mom," he said, not really listening to what he was saying. Melissa froze. Stiles froze. He swallowed, unsure as to what he was meant to say. What he could say. It wasn't like he could explain that, in the future, that was what he called her.

That he could explain how, for him, it had been longer than the four months he'd spent in the past since he returned to it (and that didn't even quite make sense in his own head). That it had been longer, for him, than the four months since his mother's death that everyone else had experienced.

Giving herself a small shake, Melissa smiled at him. "What can I do for you, Stiles?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Just thought I'd come say hi," he replied.

"Mmmhmmm," she said. "What happened to hanging out in poor Peter's room?"

Stiles stifled a chuckle at that - poor Peter. He would have to tell the guy that later.

"Boyd's talking to him," he said instead, glancing around them. The doors opened, and Stiles found all his concentration suddenly focused, intently, on the man walking through them.

It wasn't that Stiles had never seen him before (in past or future or present or whatever). But there was something about him...

Years of running and fighting and fearing for his life had taught Stiles to be aware of those around him. To pick up on the littlest things, the littlest tells, that most others dismissed.

The man glanced around, before making his way over to the desk. He was armed, Stiles knew. A gun, two knives. He walked like someone who was used to being in control. Someone who was used to fighting. There was a faint scent of gunpowder and oil.

Stepping back, out of the way but not leaving, Stiles pretended to get a text on his phone, pulling it out so that he could focus on the screen while listening.

"Can I help you?" Carrie asked. A machine started beeping and Melissa frowned at it, before hurrying off to deal with whatever it was.

The man smiled and nodded. Stiles wanted to stab him in the eyes (perhaps a bit premature, he admitted, but perhaps not. If there was one thing about this man that Stiles was sure of, it was that he was a Hunter).

"I heard that an old college friend of mine was here at the moment," the man said, smiling to try and win Carrie over. Stiles wanted to mime barfing, but his battle instincts suggested that it wasn't the right moment.

"Oh?" Carrie asked.

"Yes, Peter Hale?"

Blinking, Carrie shot a look over at Stiles, before turning back to the man. Reaching into his pocket the man pulled out a photo. It showed him standing with Peter. For a moment, Stiles wondered whether Peter really had known the man while at college, before dismissing it as irrelevant.

It could be Photoshopped - that was easy enough to do, and even if not, it was likely that any Hunter attending college with Peter (had Peter even gone to college, he wasn't sure), had been there to keep an eye on one of the famous Hale Pack.

"Peter's here," Carrie admitted. "Are you aware of why he's here?"

"I heard there was a fire."

"That's right. Peter's been in a coma for quite some time."

"What are his chances?" the man asked.

Carrie sighed. "It's been four years," she said, "it's very unlikely that he will ever wake up." The man nodded.

"I understand," he said, affecting an upset look. Stiles wanted to give him something to be upset about. "Do you mind if I see him?" the man continued.

"I guess that'd be all right," Carrie replied, she glanced over at Stiles. "Stiles?"

"Hmm?" he asked, glancing up from his phone with a distracted look on his face.

"Can you take Mr?" She glanced back over at the man.

"Frank," he said.

"Right, Frank," Carrie continued, "to Peter's room?" She looked back over to Frank. "Stiles here has been spending some time with Peter lately."

"Oh?" Frank asked.

Stiles shrugged, tapping at his phone as though answering a text. He needed Frank to see him as nothing more than an annoying teenager. "I guess," he said, flicking his gaze up momentarily, before focusing back on his phone.

Carrie frowned. "Stiles?" she asked.

"Yeah, sure," he agreed, putting his phone back into his pocket and looking fully at Frank for the first time. The man was around Peter's age (good for him, considering his college story), with thick, brown hair, brown eyes and a fairly bland face. He was the kind of person you would pass on the street and not think about twice. If it wasn't for the way he moved, that tense, Hunter's motion; or the look in his eyes, flat and dead, assessing everything; then Stiles might have dismissed him as well. A few small scars littered his face, nothing major, nothing that couldn't have been gotten in the usual youthful misdemeanors, but Stiles was fairly certain that that tiny pull next to his eyebrow came a Wolf's claw.

"Follow me," Stiles said, turning and heading down the corridor. He walked slowly, hands in his pockets and shoulders slumped, as though he didn't care to be leading the man anywhere (he didn't, but not for the selfish teenage reasons he was trying to project).

"How long have you known Peter?" the man asked.

Stiles shrugged once more. "A little while," he said. "You?" He kept his tone bored, disinterested.

"Since college," Frank replied, pressing a grin onto his face. Stiles barely spared him a glance. "I didn't think that visiting comatose patients would be something a teenager would want to do," Frank continued.

Stiles sighed, as though put upon, even as his mind raced. He didn't want to tell Frank too much - that would make it seem like he was too eager for Frank to believe his version of events, but he also didn't want to be so reticent Frank thought he was trying to hide something.

"It's not too bad, I guess," he said.

Frank frowned. "How did you start visiting him?" he asked.

"Why do you care?"

"Because he's my friend."

Scuffing his toes along the floor, Stiles turned a corner. They were almost at Peter's room. "He listens," he said suddenly, as though the words had been forced out of him. Frank gave him a scrutinizing look, but Stiles simply waved towards the room they had stopped at. "Ta da," he deadpanned.

"Thank you," Frank said, before stepping inside. Immediately, Stiles turned, walking away as though he couldn't be bothered to wait around for the other man. However, as soon as he was out of sight, he broke into a run, feeling his Spark leaping to obey his silent commands even as he did so. His footsteps fell utterly silent, all scent around him vanishing as he dashed towards the door to outside.

Slipping outside, Stiles met Boyd, who frowned.

"Stiles?" the other teen asked. "I suddenly felt like I had to leave the room." Stiles nodded, mind racing. It hadn't been conscious, warning Boyd through their Pack Bond to get out, but he was glad that he had. There was no way he wanted the Hunter to know that Peter now had a fledgling Pack forming around him.

Reaching out with his Spark, he wrapped Boyd in it, removing all scent and sound. Motioning for Boyd to follow, he crept along the side of the hospital, keeping low, out of sight of the windows.

Boyd frowned, but followed, copying Stiles movements (and yet, somehow, still making his own seem more coordinated and professional).

They stopped beneath Peter's window. It was open, Boyd having opened it when he arrived that afternoon.

"Well," they heard Frank say. "Look at you, huh?" Stiles' heart raced and he could feel his Spark pooling in his palms, which itched, ready to be unleashed. There was the sound of footsteps, Frank walking around in the room.

Boyd shot Stiles a confused and concerned look. Stiles just shook his head, motioning for Boyd to keep quiet and listen.

"To be honest," Frank continued. "I'm surprised you survived. That you keep surviving." Stiles clenched his fists. He wanted to teach that Hunter something about surviving. And Pack - what it meant to have a Pack that defended each other. But he knew that acting then would do more harm than good. The Hunters didn't know about the Pack Bonds. All they knew was that Peter was in a coma, likely never to recover, and Stiles wanted to keep it that way.

"In fact," Frank said, "I might even be doing you a favor by killing you." Stiles felt Boyd's grip on his arm tighten. "But no," Frank said. "We can't have that, can we." His tone was far too reminiscent of Kate for Stiles' liking. Already his mind was racing, coming up with, assessing, discarding and recreating dozens of ways to kill the man before he left town. Or perhaps after, after may be better, leave less suspicion on them. But should he let the man report back first?

There was a rustling sound, and then the man sighed. "False alarm," he said. "You're as comatose as you've always been, Hale." A pause. "Don't know why any kids would want to hang around you. And don't worry, I'll be back later to check up on you. Just because you're here doesn't mean that we aren't watching."

Stiles felt his breath catch in his throat - he'd been angry, he admitted then, angry though he hadn't wanted to admit it, at Derek and Laura. For leaving Peter behind, running off without him. Known they were scared and trying to survive the best they could, but now, now he thought he was beginning to understand their fears.

Because Peter, left alone without visitors (or at least, without regular visitors), was not considered a threat, and the Hunters would leave him alone. But if they stayed, visiting and trying to help him heal - the Hunters would descend (and why would Derek or Laura expect anything different of Hunters than indiscriminate killing considering what had happened to their family?) and deal with them all before Peter ever had a chance to heal.

They probably thought they were giving Peter the best chance they could by staying away as they did. And yet, despite that, they made as much contact with him as they could.

In that moment, Stiles ached for them. And he decided that he'd been playing nice for far too long. It had been strange, being in the past. As though he had all the time in the world. He'd also been hesitant, afraid to change too much. But now, well, now, things were going to change, he decided.

Why wait until Peter woke up to punish those who had harmed his family? The Pack wasn't complete, not yet, but perhaps it was large enough for Stiles to do this. Determination filling him, he listened as Frank left the room, before slipping in through the window.

Boyd followed.

Once inside, Stiles waved away the traces of his Spark still blocking their sounds and scents, before closing the door and turning back to Peter. A breeze picked up in the room, cleansing the air from the taint of the Hunter, and Stiles grinned sharply. It was a grin he hadn't let loose in front of anyone in the past yet. But Boyd, he figured, calm, dependable Boyd, would be able to cope.

And right then, having just had a Hunter in the room, Peter had to be his main concern.

"Hey," Stiles said, climbing up onto the bed, before draping himself over Peter, letting his own scent fill the wolf's senses. "We're here, Peter," he said. "We're here and we're not going to let anything happen to you." The breeze dropped, Stiles' Spark sinking back down, but still humming.

Silently and without question, Boyd climbed up onto the other side of the bed, lying along Peter's other side.

Behind them, the door shot open, but Stiles didn't move.

"What happened?" Erica asked. She sounded breathless and slightly panicked. "I suddenly felt like I simply _had_ to be here."

"Me too," Scott agreed.  Isaac also making a noise of agreement.

Then they were all piling into the bed, surrounding Peter in warmth and Pack.

*

Shivering in the dark, Peter pressed himself back, wanting both to flee from the dark presence before him and snap at it, tear at it with his teeth. He could do neither.

Then the presence was gone, and instead he felt _Pack_ return. One, then another, and then more. He felt the warmth surrounding him, pressing up against him. The smell of the dark presence was gone, and he knew that Pack had taken it away. Around him, unseen, they pulsed, bright spots of warmth and light.

Curling, not for protection, but in comfort, Peter wrapped his tail over his nose and sighed in contentment. Pack was here.

But, in the back of his mind, a thought rose unbidden. Pack had been here before, surrounding him, and then they'd been taken from him.

Stretching, determined, Peter pressed back against the Pack Bonds around him. He would not let them be taken from him again.


	13. Show me

That night, Stiles slipped out of bed after his father had gone to sleep, dropping down onto his knees to reach under his bed and drag out the box he had hidden there (okay, so it wasn't the best hiding place, but, let's be honest, so far, he hadn't needed great hiding places).

 

Flipping up the lid, Stiles stared down at the contents he had painstakingly started to gather once more. Mountain ash, just a small pile, tied tight in a pouch, identical to the one he carried on him at all times (there were things in his past, future, that made him paranoid, he could admit that). A knife, sharp yet small, edges glinting in the streetlights peeking in through his window, surface shining in a way that suggested it was coated in something (it was). A number of small sticks, all with runes etched deeply into their sides.

 

And other things, things that wouldn't look so strange in another kind of box. Another knife, small but sharp and easy to thrust between someone's ribs. A thin twist of wire, almost invisible and yet deadly strong. Wire cutters. A powerful flashlight.

 

His fingers itched for a gun, but he had yet to find a way to liberate one into his possession without making anyone suspicious.

 

Grim smile on his face, Stiles began pulling items from his box. Once ready, he turned and slipped out the window. It was a path he had, or would, walk many times before. Experience teaching him where to step to minimise the noise he made and to keep his footing.

 

Dropping lightly to the ground in a roll to lessen the impact, Stiles straightened. Grabbing his bike, he set off into the night. There was another item secured on his person – an old book, taken from Peter's shelves, page already marked and waiting.

 

The motel at the edge of town was just as dingy as it had always been, but Stiles didn't waste any time worrying about that. A quick point-me spell (and yes, all right, he got the name from the Harry Potter books, he isn't ashamed to admit it, but the name worked so he didn't see why he couldn't use it!), showed him which room.

 

Then, with a dexterity that he hadn't had just months ago when first waking in the past, Stiles scaled the side of the building, pushing open the rusted window and slipped inside.

 

Frank was there. Sleeping peacefully on the bed. Good.

 

Reaching into this pocket, Stiles thumbed his pouch, before pulling out some mountain ash – just a pinch, and flicking it away from him into the air. As he did so, he _imagined_.

 

The ash spread, impossibly wide for just a pinch, settling in a perfect circle around Frank on the bed. The man slipped deeper into slum b er. Stiles smirked.

 

He made quick work of searching the room.  Frank hadn't brought much with him. Like most hunters, he traveled with a duffle. Beneath the clothes, Stiles thumbed through the guns and bullets, liberating a few just in case (you could never be too careful with wolfsbane poisoning),  before replacing everything.

 

He would have liked to have taken a gun (later years that had no longer happened yet teaching him much about their use), but knew that such a large theft would likely be noticed.

 

Frank's phone lay on the bedside table, charging, and Stiles quickly used what skills he had picked up over the years to search through it (nothing of interest – just a few vague texts that confirmed what Stiles had already thought, that Frank was there to ensure that Peter was not in any way able to be a threat), and note down anything about it that could be used later to track Frank's calls (model, make, phone number, IMEI and others).

 

Before an hour was up, Stiles was back at the window, ready to slip outside and away. Glancing back over at the bed, he waved his hand, sweeping through the air as though he could gather up the scattered ash – and once more he  _imagined._

 

Rising from the bed, the ash swirled through the air, rushing back towards his hand where it landed neatly in his palm.

 

With a flutter of dirty and torn curtains, Stiles was gone.

 

*

 

“Stiles?” Scott asked.

 

Blinking blearily (really, he had been – would be – had been – so much better at going without sleep in the future), Stiles glanced over at his friend. By Scott's side, Isaac stood with hunched shoulders and a worried look on his face. Erica was squished between Isaac and Boyd, face drawn up in hauteur, but eyes concerned as they swept over him.

 

“Hey,” Stiles mumbled.

 

“What's going on?” Scott asked.

 

Isaac nodded and Erica looked interested. Boyd didn't move, but Stiles could sense his agreement. It really was unfair how, without any movement at all, Boyd could convey exactly what he was thinking.

 

“Why did we all end up at Peter's last night?” Isaac asked.

 

Pushing himself fully upright at their regular outside table, Stiles suppressed a yawn as his thoughts raced. What should he tell them? What could he tell them?

 

“I felt like I had to be there,” Erica said. “Like there was a pull, making me go there.”

 

Chewing on his lip, Stiles tapped his fingers against his thigh, before sighing. “Okay,” he said, “just go with me on this.” His friends exchanged glances, but said nothing. “You know how I've been reading those books of Uncle Peter's, right?”

 

They nodded.

 

“I don't think they're fiction.”

 

“What do you mean?” Isaac frowned as he spoke and Stiles noted, with a zing of protective anger, that he had another bruise forming along his hairline.

 

“I mean,” he said carefully, “what if they're true?”

 

“True?” Scott asked.

 

“Yes! It would make everything make sense.”

 

“How?” Erica demanded.

 

“Okay, right,” Stiles muttered, spreading his hands as he tried to gather his thoughts. “So, the books talk all about werewolves, right?”

 

They nodded, having been on the end of many of Stiles' lectures on the contents of said books, but didn't look any the more enlightened.

  
“What if it's not just theory? Not just a pretty tale told to amuse people? What if it's real? What if werewolves really exist, and they really do get better faster with a Pack around them? What if Pack Bonds are also real? It would explain what happened last night, how we all ended up in the same place, feeling as though we had been pulled there by a Bond.”

 

Scott frowned. “But we're not werewolves,” he said.

 

Stiles shrugged. “No,” he agreed, “but that doesn't mean that we can't be Pack – the books specifically say that humans can be Pack. If we are, then we have Pack Bonds, and when I realised that that Frank guy was a danger last night, then I must have used the Pack Bonds to call you.”

 

“Not Peter?” Isaac asked, brow furrowed.

 

Stiles shrugged. “Maybe Peter did as well,” he said.

 

But Scott was already shaking his head. “Werewolves aren't real,” he said. “There has to be another reason.”

 

Stiles opened his mouth to reply, but the bell rang, signalling time to head to class. Sighing, he gathered his bag as he stood. “Just think about it,” he said, “about everything I've read and everything we've done.”

 

*

 

Boyd found him a lunch, silently dragging Stiles away to an abandoned classroom and folding his arms after following him in.

 

“You haven't just been reading books on werewolves,” the other teen stated, barely waiting for Stiles to catch his breath. Slowly, Stiles shook his head. Boyd nodded. “You've been reading books on something you keep mumbling about, called a Spark.” Another nod. “Show me.”

 

“Uh -”

 

“If the books are real,” Boyd reasoned, “then that means you can do things with the Spark. Prove they're real. Show me.”

 

Glancing around, Stiles examined the room. There wasn't much in there, just some tables and chairs, and he really didn't want to get landed with the bills for wrecking any of the school furniture. Which was kind of a shame as most of the magic he knew, honed in his past-future, had been of the destructive kind – the kind that had helped to keep them alive.

 

Still, there were other things he knew, and things he'd picked up, as Boyd said, reading the books.

 

Bringing his hands up in front of himself, Stiles cupped them, breathing in deeply and then slowly releasing his breath as he felt the warmth of his Spark stir. Concentrating, he sent it racing down his arms and into his palms, where it spilled out, warmth building until a soft glow rose, a golden sphere of light hovering just above his skin.

 

Boyd made a shocked sound, staggering backwards.

 

Spreading his fingers, Stiles moved his hands apart, leaving the glowing sphere in place even as flickers of light, like sparks of electricity, ran from his hands into the sphere and then back. Then, closing his fingers, Stiles snuffed it out.

 

“Okay,” Boyd said.

 

Turning to look at him, all too aware that this Boyd hadn't seen the things that the future Boyd Stiles remembered had (this one was also still alive), Stiles forced himself to quirk an eyebrow. “Okay?” he asked.

 

Boyd nodded. “Okay,” he said, “I believe you.”

 

Stiles laughed. “That makes one person who doesn't think I'm insane.”

 

Boyd motioned towards his hands. “Show them that,” he said. “They'll have to believe you.”

 

“I don't know, Scott can be pretty stubborn.” Boyd gave him an unimpressed look and Stiles sighed.

 

*

 

“Danny!” Stiles exclaimed, practically falling over himself as he tried to change direction to catch the other teen.

 

“Stiles?” Danny asked. He didn't laugh at Stiles' flailing (how he could be such good friends with Jackson Stiles really couldn't understand).

 

“Just the person I need,” Stiles told him. Mouth, as usual, moving faster than his brain. “I need you to track a phone for me.”

 

“What?” The look Danny gave him suggested that Stiles was unhinged. Stiles resented that implication even as he admitted that it might be, at least partly, true.

 

“A phone,” he repeated. “I need it tracked. Phone calls logged. All that. I have everything you need.” He held out the piece of paper onto which he'd carefully copied the phone's details the night before.

 

Danny shook his head. “Why do you think I -”

 

“Really?” Stiles cut, giving a look that suggested that he knew all.

 

Danny swallowed, but frowned, shaking his head. “I'm not going to get on the wrong side of the law,” he began.

 

“Please,” Stiles said. “It's a matter of life or death.”

 

The look Danny gave him suggested complete disbelief in that theory, but he did agree to meet with Stiles that afternoon.

 

*

 

“I still can't believe you wanted to meet at the hospital,” Danny complained, staring around as Stiles led him down the corridors to Peter's room.

 

Stiles shrugged. “We meet here all the time,” he said. Pushing open the door, he called a greeting to Peter, while ushering Danny inside. Peter was sitting in his chair, facing the window, and the room was empty of any other occupants.

 

“So, uh,” Danny began, dropping his bag down onto floor.

 

“Danny,” Stiles said with a grin, “this is Peter. Peter, Danny.” He gestured wildly between them.

 

“Okay,” Danny agreed, stepping closer. There was a moment when Stiles realised, by Danny's sudden stillness, that he'd noticed the burns on Peter's face. Then, being Danny, the other teen just took another step forward. “Please to meet you,” he said.

 

Nodding, and patting Peter absently on the shoulder, Stiles motioned for Danny to take a seat, while perching himself on the side of Peter's chair. Danny shot him a surprised look, but didn't say anything.

 

“So,” said Stiles.

 

“So,” agreed Danny. He leant forward. “You said this was a matter of life and death.”

 

“It is.” Running his hands over his head, Stiles frowned, trying to figure out just what to say and how to say it. He gestured towards Peter. “I've been visiting Peter here since, uh, since...”

 

“Since your mom passed away,” Danny murmured.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. He shrugged. “He's a good listener, never interrupts.” Danny smiled at him. “Anyway,” Stiles continued. “The other day, this guy was here, claiming to be a friend of Peter's, only he's never been here before.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, I don't believe him.” Pushing himself to his feet, Stiles began to pace. “See, the thing is, maybe he is a friend, but I was getting some seriously bad vibes from him.” At Danny's unimpressed look, he changed track. “The guy was armed,” he said. “At least one gun, maybe more. He came in here and Boyd and I overheard him saying something about Peter not being a threat as he wasn't waking up – and that the guy might be doing everyone a favour if he killed him.” Frowning, Stiles let his hand settle down onto Peter's shoulder once more.

 

Pulling out the paper with the phone details, Stiles waved it in Danny's direction. “I managed to get the details of his phone,” he continued, “but I got the impression he was going to be 'checking in' with some others. So, I thought, if we could track his phone, then we could find out if he was planning anything.”

 

“Huh,” Danny said. He frowned. “Why don't you just tell your father? He's the Sheriff, it's his job to deal with things like this.”

  
“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, “and I am going to talk to him – but at the moment, I don't have any proof.”

 

“So you want me to get proof – illegally, I might add.”

 

“No, I want you to help us keep an eye on this guy so we can stop him if he tries anything to hurt Peter.”

 

“This is insane.”

 

“I don't think the fire was an accident.”

 

“What?”

 

“I don't think the fire was an accident,” Stiles continued. He rubbed his hands against his jeans, chewed momentarily on his bottom lip and turned to face Danny fully. “I don't think the Hale fire was an accident, I think it was deliberately lit.”

  
Danny shook his head. “They have investigators for things like that,” he said, “they would have noticed.”

 

“Maybe,” Stiles said, needing Danny to agree to help. “But if it was deliberately lit, then that explains a lot of what the guy was talking about. Danny, I need your help. I can't track phones the way you can. Look, just, help me set up the tracking, and then I'll do all the actual tracking and if anything ever comes up about it, I'll say I did it all myself, yeh?”

 

Standing up, Danny stepped closer to Peter. “You're saying you think it was deliberate?” he asked.

 

“Yeah, I do,” Stiles agreed.

 

“Okay.”

 

(Stiles kept his fist-pump internal, but it was a close call).


	14. It's like this

Heading into school a couple of days later, Stiles pretended he couldn't see the judging look Boyd was giving him. So he hadn't yet shown his Spark to the others. Yes, he knew it was rather definitive proof. He'd been busy. Yes, busy, that was the excuse he was going to use.

Rolling his eyes at himself, Stiles tripped his way over to his locker. Danny was waiting there.

“Stilinski,” Danny said.

“Hey.” Smiling, Stiles leant against the lockers and raised one eyebrow.

Shaking his head, Danny handed him a piece of paper. Frowning, Stiles glanced down at it, before grinning broadly.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Don't mention it,” Danny replied.

Laughing, Stiles clapped Danny on the shoulder before turning to open his locker. There was a pause for a moment, and then he heard Danny moving away.

Piece of paper pressed tight against his hand, Stiles felt his Spark – on edge ever since 'Frank' had visited Peter – finally start to settle. Because that piece of paper was all Stiles needed to know to track all of Frank's messages and calls through his phone. Danny was brilliant.

“Batman,” Erica demanded Stiles' attention, leaning into his personal space and pretending nonchalance as she stared down at her nails. “What's this I hear about you having something to show us?”

Groaning, Stiles slammed his locker shut. “Boyd needs to learn to keep his big mouth shut,” he replied.

“Who said it was Boyd?”

Shooting Erica an incredulous look, Stiles began to move down the hallway.

“Okay, fine, so it was Boyd,” Erica admitted. A pause. “C'mon Stiles, show me.”

Shaking his head, Stiles motioned towards the nearest classroom. “Right now,” he said, “I need to somehow survive the lesson, which includes a pop quiz, by the way -”

“How is it a pop quiz if you know about it?”

“Becuase Collins' pop quizzes really aren't as random as they're meant to seem,” Stiles replied with a shrug. “He follows a formula. And then, I have a whole day of school to get through. So, show and tell will have to wait for later.”

“At Peter's” Erica asked, hand on his arm as she prevented him from entering the room.

Glancing towards the ringing bell, Stiles shrugged Erica's hand off. “Catch you later, Catwoman,” he said.

-

The day passed fairly quickly. Stiles spent half his pop quiz answering the questions he thought should have been asked and the other half planning out the runes he wanted to carve into the doorframe of Peter's room. And along the base of the walls. Top too, if he could. Frowning, he tapped his pen against his paper. His teachers had never seen him so studious.

Lunch was spent sitting in semi-comfortable silence as he ignored Boyd's prompting looks, shared food with Scott and helped Erica pick out an outfit from a magazine she'd picked up.

“This one,” Stiles said, tapping his finger decisively against a pair of dark jeans. 

Erica tilted her head to the side, considering. “But what if I wreck them?” she asked. “If I... well, if I have a seizure, I could damage them -”

“Please,” Stiles replied. “Scott and I are teenage boys.” Boyd cleared his throat. “And Boyd and Isaac,” he hastily added. “But that doesn't mean we shouldn't wear nice clothes just because we might damage them. Besides, you don't want to know the kinds of things I've done to our washing because I wasn't paying enough attention. I'm sure I'm much more of a danger to clothing than you are.”

Erica bit her lip.

“You should,” Boyd said, glancing down at the magazine. “If you want.”

Smiling shyly, Erica nodded. “Okay,” she said.

The afternoon passed with more classes and before long Stiles was steadily biking his way over to the hospital – as was habit.

Dumping his bike by the entrance (he'd worry more about it being stolen if he hadn't scratched numerous runes all along the frame – he may be paranoid, but he figured he had a good reason for it), he jogged through the doors, calling greetings to the nurses as he passed.

They smiled, nodding back (some even reached over to try and ruffle his mostly non-existent hair, but Stiles was used to ducking), and returning his greetings.

“Hey Peter!” he declared, swinging easily into the room (the way he tripped over his own feet and had to grasp the doorframe to stop himself from face-planting was definitely planned. Definitely. He figured Peter could use the amusement).

There was no response, Peter sitting still and silent, staring out the window.

Flailing his way over, already talking a mile-a-minute, Stiles brushed his hand across Peter's shoulders as he moved to open the window.

“You would not believe what I have been having to deal with lately,” he said. Fresh air rushed in through the window, a gentle bite in it as the months turned colder.

Turning back, Stiles leant forward to give Peter a hug. “So, Boyd's been giving me dirties all day,” he said. “I get what he's saying, well, not saying, seeing as it's Boyd, but he still manages to get his message across, you know? Anyway, I know what he means. I should just show them, but...

“I guess I'm just so used to keeping things secret. To not-telling. And, I'm... I'm scared,” he admitted. Shifting so that he was perched on the arm of Peter's chair, pressed up against his side, head resting on Peter's, Stiles stared out the window.

“I'm scared of what I can do,” he admitted softly. “Because I never learnt how to do the fun, easy stuff. There was no time for that. Everything I learnt – it's meant for war. For death. For survival.” Turning his head, he breathed in. Peter's scent wasn't quite the same as he was (would be) used to. Not here in the hospital, with hospital soaps and shampoos as opposed to Peter's own meticulously chosen ones. Nor was it earthy enough, Peter unable to lurk around in the woods like Stiles suspected all werewolves secretly liked to do, getting back to nature.

“So what am I supposed to show them when they ask?” he said. “When a pretty ball of light isn't enough and they want more? How I can use it to kill someone? To place a barrier, trapping others? My tricks aren't all light-shows and happiness.”

Sighing, Stiles rubbed his cheek against Peter's head, subconsciously scent-marking him. Combining their scents as pack. 

In what many would consider to be a rare show of silence, Stiles stared out the window. Eventually, he sighed.

“I guess I don't have to show them everything,” he said. “The light should be enough to start with, just like I showed Boyd.” His eyes flickered over to the bookshelves. “And surely some of your books will have more information in them.” He gave a soft laugh. “Of course they do, I've already found some that deal with Sparks – but I was focused again on defense and offense – too used to simply needing to survive.”

Pushing himself upright as he felt the gentle tingle through the bonds that meant the others were getting closer, Stiles gave Peter another quick hug.

“Thanks,” he said. “I needed that.”

Moments later the door opened, Erica, Isaac, Scott and Boyd tumbling through (well, Scott tumbled, the others entered more normally).

“Hey Peter!” Scott called, hurrying over to give the man a hug. Erica soon replaced him, followed by Isaac, then Boyd – who simply placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“So?” Erica asked, practically bouncing where she sat on Peter's bed. Staring at her, Stiles felt a broad grin bubbling up and breaking out over his face. He didn't think he'd ever seen Erica so excited or carefree before.

This was why he was here. And this was why he needed to tell them. So that they knew enough to stay like this and stay safe, but not enough to steal the happiness away from them.

“So?” Scott asked, sounding puzzled. 

“Stiles has something to show us,” Erica replied, tossing her head. Her hair wasn't yet to the standards that Stiles had seen in the past (future), but already it was beginning to be tamed, parts of the Erica he knew peeking out as she grew more comfortable with herself and with them. But tempered, not so harsh or defensive, beauty used as a weapon against others in order to prevent them from seeing beneath it and so shielding her. No, this was Erica, pressing back against her illness and circumstances to show her, the real her, to those who were willing to look. A brave ripping down of masks, rather than the creation of new ones.

“What do you need to show us?” Isaac asked, sounding confused.

Taking a deep breath, Stiles let his eyes rest on Peter for a moment, before turning to face the others.

“It's like this,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know this is much shorter than usual, but I figured you'd rather have this short update now than wait.
> 
> I've had a number of issues to deal with this year - including mental illness - which put a big spanner in my writing for a while. But things have been improving and hopefully that means you will be seeing more from me soon. ;)
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who is still reading this, and for all the wonderful reviews and encouragement I have received.


	15. Does this mean werewolves are real?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding LYDIA and JACKSON - I realise from some of the comments I've received that I may not have been clear enough in my notes on Chapter 14 that it does NOT follow on from Chapter 13, nor does it precede Chapter 15. 
> 
> That is, Chapter 14 (The Christmas chapter) was deliberately written out of order - at the time I wanted to write a Christmas chapter, but wasn't at that point in the story so included it as an interlude, set sometime in the future, once Lydia, Jackson and Danny have all joined the Pack.
> 
> So the reason it seems like Lydia et al are suddenly Pack without explanation is that it is a Future Chapter. They WILL become Pack, and I have plans on how they do so - will unfold (hopefully) in the next few chapters. 
> 
> (in other words, please read Chapter 14 as an add-on and not part of the main fic - Chapter 15 follows directly after Chapter 13 in terms of the timeline - my apologies that I didn't make this clearer earlier)
> 
> I also want to take the time to thank everyone for their kind comments and thoughts and encouragement. It is most appreciated.

Stiles opened and closed his mouth a few times, staring around at his friends, his _pack_.

 

Scott frowned, brows furrowing as he stared at Stiles' uncharacteristic silence. “Stiles?” he asked.

 

Clearing his throat, and deciding to forgo speaking for the moment (something that had the others all looking quite serious and worried), and simply held his hands out in front of him. Flicking his eyes to Peter, and then back to the others, Stiles took a deep breath.

 

As he breathed out, he pushed his Spark, that feeling, down his arms and out above his palms.

 

Scott gaped, mouth hanging open. Erica gasped. And Isaac shifted closer, staring at the ball of pulsing light.

 

“That's -” Isaac began.

 

“Magic,” Scott finished. He stared wide-eyed at Stiles. “You can do magic.”

 

Shrugging, Stiles let the light hover above one hand as he used the other to wave through the air. “Those books I've been reading?” he said.

 

“Peter's books,” Isaac asked.

 

“Yeah. Well, they talk about something called a Spark.” He shrugged. “I seem to have it.”

 

“This is awesome!” Scott declared. He bounded forward, peering down at the light. “Does it do anything?”

 

“Do anything?” Erica scoffed. “Stiles has managed, just by reading, to learn to create light out of nothing and you want to know if it does anything?”

 

Scott shrugged sheepishly, before his eyes glinted once more with interest. “What about other things?” he asked.

 

“Does this mean werewolves are real?” Everyone fell silent, turning to look at Isaac. Shifting nervously in place, the younger boy chewed on his lip for a moment before continuing. “It's just,” he said, nodding at Stiles, “you said the other day that you wondered if the books weren't fiction. If werewolves were real. And that we had Pack Bonds.”

 

Stiles nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think so.”

 

Boyd frowned. “You think Peter is a werewolf,” he said. Stiles blinked, looking across at him. At the same time, the ball of light vanished, sputtering out into nothingness. Scott pouted.

 

“You said the books weren't fiction. That we had Pack Bonds and that we didn't have to be werewolves to be Pack,” Boyd said. “But surely a Pack needs to have at least one werewolf.”

 

Stiles bit his lip. Yes, that was what he had been getting at, and if things worked out, the others knowing would help Peter even more. Still, it felt like he was telling a secret that wasn't his to tell. No wonder they hadn't believed him the other day if he had been so vague.

 

“If Peter's a werewolf,” Isaac said, moving forward to rest his hand against Peter's shoulder. “Does that mean that us being near him helps him to heal? That's what you were saying, right?”

 

“Yes,” Stiles agreed. “The pull we all felt – that sounds like the Pack Bonds. If Peter's a werewolf, and we've become Pack by being around him and helping him, then those Bonds stretch between us and we can use them to help him heal.”

 

“How?” Erica asked. She stood up from where she had been sitting on Peter's bed, face etched in determination. “What do we need to do, Stiles?”

 

Swallowing, Stiles stared around at the serious faces looking back at him. Scott nodded. Boyd merely raised an eyebrow, and Isaac pressed closer to Peter.

 

“What we've been doing,” Stiles said. “Hanging out here, talking to Peter, letting fresh air in and taking him outside. Just – being here. As Pack, our presence is all he really needs.”

 

“Should we take turns to stay overnight?” Scott asked. Stiles frowned as he turned to his friend.

 

“What?” he asked.

 

“If being here helps, then should we be here all the time?” Scott asked. “I mean, we could take turns to stay overnight and come in our free periods at school and -”

 

“I don't think we need to do that,” Stiles said. But his gaze drifted to Peter and he found himself saying, “but it couldn't hurt. I really don't know just how much difference a constant presence would make, if it really would make a difference beyond the time we spend here already.”

 

“Then let's find out,” Erica declared, striding over to the bookshelves. She stared at them, lip caught between her teeth. Stiles gave a startled laugh. “What?” Erica asked, turning a frosty glare on Stiles. “You're not the only one who cares about Peter,” she said.

 

“No,” Stiles agreed, warmth bubbling within him. “No, I'm not.”

 

*

 

Books spread out around them as they sat in a circle on the floor, Stiles leaning against the front of Peter's legs, with Erica pressed against him to the right and Isaac to the left, they looked far more studious than the Sheriff had ever seen them.

 

“Well,” he said, “there a test coming up or something?”

 

Stiles glanced up, pen hanging from his mouth. “Hey Dad,” he said, catching the pen as it fell when he opened his mouth to speak.

 

“Stiles,” the Sheriff replied. “Should I be worried?”

 

“Worried?”

 

Nodding to the scattered books, opened at various pages, the Sheriff raised an eyebrow.

 

“Huh. Oh. No,” Stiles replied. “Everything's perfectly fine.”

 

“Uh huh,” stooping down, the Sheriff scooped up one of the books, glanced down at the open pages. His gaze picked out a few words. _Werewolves. Full moon. Pack. Wolfsbane._ He sighed. “Should have known you wouldn't be this studious over school work,” he said. “Just make sure you still do your homework.” He gestured to Stiles with the book as he spoke. “And don't stay up all night playing whatever game this is for.”

 

“Uh, sure, Dad,” Stiles replied. He shared a confused look with Scott before smiling brightly up at his father.

 

“Hmm.” The Sheriff looked concerned for a moment, before shaking it off. “Right, well, I came by to let you know that I'm going to be home late tonight.”

 

“Okay,” Stiles agreed easily.

 

“Stiles can stay at ours,” Scott immediately cut in with.

 

The Sheriff smiled. “Thanks, Scott,” he said. “And thank your mother for me as well.” He nodded at the group, moving back towards the door. “Keep an eye on them for me, would you, Peter,” he called. “Goodness knows Stiles finds trouble without any effort at all.”

 

“Hey!” Stiles protested.

 

“I think I found something,” Isaac said as soon as the Sheriff was far enough away to not hear them. They all turned to look at him. “Here,” Isaac said, pushing the book towards them, a serious look on his face. It was open to an image of a werewolf, transformed beneath the full moon and rearing back away from a man with a bow. An arrow was sticking out of the werewolf's shoulder.

 

“Hunters,” Erica said, leaning over to read the text on the opposite page.

 

Isaac nodded. “According to this, they hunt werewolves.” Everyone turned to look at Peter. Stiles pressed more firmly against his legs.

 

“The man,” Boyd said. “He said that he was surprised Peter survived. He spoke of killing him. He was a Hunter.” There was no doubt in Boyd's voice and once more Stiles felt a wash of warmth for the other boy. So often Boyd was overlooked because he was quiet and calm. But really, Boyd was someone Stiles would trust (and often had trusted) to pull the pieces of a plan together, to think strategically. To see what others wanted when they were too busy overlooking him to notice him watching them.

 

“Will he come back, do you think?” Isaac asked worriedly, reaching up to squeeze Peter's knee.

 

Boyd frowned. “He seemed content to leave Peter be,” he said, “but he did say they were watching. And he had been concerned that he was waking up.”

 

Scott made a pained sound in his throat. “They want Peter to stay in a coma?” he asked, eyes wide as though he couldn't believe anyone so cruel. Which was one of the reasons Stiles loved Scott so much – his utter ability to believe the best of others and always demand it of them and himself.

 

Boyd gestured to the image in the book. “It seems they'd prefer him dead,” he said.

 

Erica looked up from the book where she'd been reading. “Actually,” she said, “it sounds like they're meant to be kind of like werewolf police – only attacking those who harm humans.”

 

“Peter would never hurt anyone!” Scott declared.

 

“Attacking,” Isaac said, eyes turning back to the picture. “Not stopping or locking up, but killing.” He frowned. “What if they're not all like police – what if some just kill. What if the fire wasn't an accident?”

 

A still hush settled across the room. Stiles could feel his Spark stirring within him, pushing to be used. Ready to act. He had been worried about how he would tell the others about Hunters. Warn them of the danger. And about the fire. But it seemed he didn't need to find a way to tell them – they'd come to the correct conclusion all on their own.

 

“Well,” said Scott, “we're just going to have to protect Peter, then.” He stared around at them in determination.

 

*

 

“Here,” Scott said some hours later as they were packing up the books. The afternoon had moved into early evening and then into late evening and they knew they needed to head home before their parents (well, most of them) started worrying. Handing a book to Stiles, Scott added. “You can stay here tonight.”

 

Stiles glanced back at him. Scott shrugged.

 

“Your dad thinks you're staying with me – but mom doesn't know that yet. So, you can stay here.”

 

“Good,” Erica declared, smiling. “My parents already think I spend too much time elsewhere and they'd never agree to me staying over at a boy's house.”

 

“I can probably stay tomorrow night,” Isaac said. “My dad will be busy then and won't notice if I'm not there.”

 

Stiles cast Isaac a concerned gaze but refrained from saying anything.

 

Not long after, he was alone in Peter's room, having waved goodbye to the others. Carrie had been by earlier to help put Peter to bed for the night, gently telling the teens that they should be thinking of finding their own beds.

 

“Well,” Stiles said, turning to look at Peter. “I guess it's just you and me now, huh?”

 

Walking over, he slipped up onto Peter's bed, lying down beside him and leaning his head against Peter's shoulder.

 

“I wish you would wake up,” he whispered. “If only so that I could hear your sass again.” He paused. “But you take whatever time you need, okay. We'll be here. Waiting.”

 

 

*

 

“latierkinr kisghhs.”

 

Blinking, Stiles looked up at Isaac. “I have no idea what you just said,” he said.

 

Isaac grimaced. “Me either,” he replied. “What _are_ you reading?”

 

Stiles shrugged. “One of Peter's books,” he replied.

 

“Uh huh,” Isaac agreed. “That's not in English.”

 

“Ancient Latin,” a voice cut sharply into their conversation. Heart pounding, Stiles turned to stare at Lydia. Her perfect hair was flipped over one shoulder, hand on one hip as her lips pursed and she stared at him. “Since when do you read Ancient Latin, Stilinski?”

 

“Uh,” said Stiles, looking up at her. Then he froze, feeling Isaac do the same beside him. His Pack Bond, the one that stretched out to Peter, _pulled_.

 

*

 

In that place where he lingered, Peter stretched languidly, basking in the warmth of his Pack arrayed around him. He could feel their bonds, pulsing gently between them, sending love and care and a fierce protectiveness towards him. Tugging gently on the bonds, Peter let them wash over him. So much care, so much warmth – he almost thought they couldn't be real. So he tugged. Hard.

 

 


	16. getting stronger

Eyes wide, Stiles spun on his heel, dashing down the corridor. Fear pulsed within him, but alongside it was the familiar feeling of desperation. He wouldn't let anything happen to Peter. Not this time.

 

Beside him, Stiles could hear Isaac, also running. Shoving through the front doors of the school, they pounded down the steps and into the carpark. For a moment, Stiles felt panic grip him as he looked around without seeing his jeep. Then reality kicked in as he remembered that he wasn't old enough to drive yet in this timeline.

 

Overcoming his distraction in mere seconds, Stiles dashed over to his bike, Isaac moving with him to unchain it. Moments later, Scott was also at their side, unchaining his own bike, even as Erica and Boyd approached.

 

“Stilinski!” Lydia demanded, frowning harshly. “What are you doing?” Her confusion was well hidden, but clear to Stiles after all the time they'd spent together in the future that no longer was.

 

Ignoring her, he mounted his bike, feeling Isaac climb on behind him. Beside them, Scott and Erica did the same. Stiles glanced at Boyd. The older boy grinned, but there was a seriousness in his eyes.

 

“Go,” he said. “I'll make our excuses here and then follow.”

 

Nodding, Stiles pushed off.

 

Frowning, Lydia turned to Boyd. “And just,” she asked, “where exactly are they going?”

 

Shaking his head, Boyd headed towards the office. “Didn't you know?” he asked. “They've got food poisoning. Must have been the sushi they all ate last night.”

 

*

 

Stiles had never ridden faster in his life. His legs burned with the effort by the time they reached the hospital. Dropping his bike, uncaring of where it fell, he dashed inside, ignoring Carrie's exclamation of surprise.

 

The path to Peter's room was well-known, and it was only moments later that they burst into the room, panting and staring around.

 

Stiles' hands were clenched, his Spark burning, hot and bright inside his fists, ready to be unleashed on any enemy. Scott had grabbed up a bedpan and was holding it warily in front of him. Erica and Isaac both looked ready to scratch someone's eyes out.

 

Peter was alone.

 

Breathing harshly, staring around the room, Stiles searched for any sign that someone else had been there. That they had disturbed someone with ill intentions. But there was nothing.

 

Peter was sitting in his chair, angled towards the open window, sunlight splashing over his face.

 

Moving forward cautiously, Stiles felt the hum beneath his skin. His Spark was there, ready to act. Moving in the way he had learnt in order to survive. But there was nothing for him to move against. To attack.

 

“What happened?” Erica asked, also taking in the room.

 

Shaking his head, Stiles stepped forward, until he could place his hand on Peter's shoulder. There was no visible reaction. There never was. But their Pack Bond hummed beneath Stiles' hand. There was a feeling of satisfaction. Surprise. Pleasure. Pack.

 

There was no lingering feel of magic, nothing his Spark could pick up to suggest someone other than the usual nurses and doctors had been there. Nothing to suggest why they had all felt the need to rush to Peter's side.

 

Stiles' gaze turned to Peter. “Why did you call us here?” he asked. Then he froze, gaze going to the others.

 

“He called us?” Isaac asked. He stepped forward, pressing close.

 

“But if Peter called us,” said Scott.

 

Swallowing, Stiles nodded.

 

“Did he wake?” Erica asked.

 

Stiles shook his head. “I don't think so,” he replied. “Not awake, not yet. But... _aware!_ ” Laughing, he gave Peter's shoulder a squeeze. Then, closing his eyes and breathing deep, Stiles reached inside himself to where his Pack Bond to Peter rested. Grabbing hold, he tugged.

 

Peter tugged back.

 

Grin spreading over his face, unable to hold it back, Stiles opened his eyes to stare at the others. “Definitely aware,” he said.

 

Erica's eyes narrowed as she stared at him. “How do you know?” she asked. “You did something, just then. I know you did. What was it?”

 

“The Pack Bond,” said Isaac. “You can feel them?”

 

“Can't you?” Scott asked, staring around at them.

 

“Of course,” Isaac replied. “I mean, I feel _something_ , but what that is and how to control it...”

 

“Close your eyes,” Stiles said. They did so. “Breath deep, and just... _feel_... inside, there's a warm pulse of something.” They nodded. “That's the Pack Bonds. Where they all meet. A warm glow of _Pack_. Now, concentrate, and feel them separately. Each strand is a different Bond. When you touch each one, you'll be able to feel who it belongs to. What it feels like will be different for everyone, but you'll know it. Find Peter's. And tug – gently,” he added quickly, seeing Scott's frown of concentration.

 

Gasping, Isaac's eyes flew open. “He tugged back!” he exclaimed.

 

Smiling, Stiles nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed.

 

Stumbling forward, Erica pressed herself against Peter's side, pulling him into a hug.

 

Looking up, Stiles saw Scott staring at him. He tilted his head in confusion.

 

“That's what you think of me?” Scott asked. There were tears in his eyes.

 

“Scott -”

 

Scott shook his head. “You don't need to protect me,” he said. “We protect each other. That's what Pack is.” He paused. “And I love you, too, dude.”

 

“I know,” Stiles replied, giving his Pack Bond with Scott a tweak. Scott jumped, then smiled, tugging back.

 

“All right,” Melissa said, standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “I don't know what you all think you're doing, but you _should_ be at school.”

 

Grinning innocently (as much as they could) up at her, the teens tried desperately to think of an excuse.

 

Melissa sighed, running one hand through her hair. “Do I even want to know?” she asked.

 

“Um... no?” Scott suggested.

 

She frowned. “I expect you all to do your homework – and when that's finished, you can study.” She informed them sternly. “I have a feeling that sending you back to school right now could cause a number of questions.” The sheepish looks they gave her confirmed that impression. Shaking her head, Melissa left the room.

 

“Right.” Pulling his backpack over to himself, Stiles opened it, pulling out the notes he'd been working on and spreading them out around them.

 

“What's that?” Scott asked, peering down at them.

 

“Protective runes,” Stiles replied. “I want to add them to the room.”

 

Nodding, Erica picked one of the sheets up. “Can we help?” she asked. “I mean, you have that, Spark, or whatever – can we help, or do you need to do it yourself?”

 

Stiles frowned, staring down at them. “You can,” he decided. “You just have to think about what you want the runes to do as you create them. So, you know, think positively and of protection, love, stuff like that. Then, I'll charge them.”

 

“Charge them?” Isaac asked.

 

Stiles nodded. “I read it in one of Peter's books,” he explained. “I push part of my Spark into them and that takes all the protection you've poured into them and activates it.”

 

“So,” Scott said, “where should we start?”

 

*

 

When Boyd joined them that afternoon after school, he let them know that they had all, as far as the school was concerned, suddenly come down with food poisoning. He then immediately set to helping them to carve the runes around the room. In the doorframe. The skirting boards. The bookcases. Windowframe. Anywhere and everywhere.

 

Stiles' eyes were drooping by the time they finished, his Spark feeling dull and weary within him. But the room was protected.

 

“Fascinating.”

 

Glancing up, Stiles stared as Lydia entered the room. Her gaze shot around them, taking in the new carvings with a suspicious eye.

 

“Lydia,” Stiles said.

 

She frowned. “Are you going to tell me what's going on?” she asked.

 

“Nothing's going on,” Scott replied, eyes shifting.

 

“You're a terrible liar,” she replied. Smoothing her skirt, she took a seat on Peter's bed, looking around at the hospital room that they had made their own. “You spend inordinate amounts of time here, with someone you never met when he was well. You've been reading Ancient Latin. There are new carvings of runes all around this room. And, you asked Danny to do something he won't speak about.” She looked around at them.

 

There was silence.

 

“I'm waiting,” Lydia prodded.

 

“Like Scott said,” Stiles told her, “there's nothing going on.”

 

“Really? Because up until a little while ago, you couldn't look at me without stumbling over your own feet. And now, suddenly, you're ignoring me in order to spend time with some guy in a coma!”

 

“I didn't realise you even knew I existed,” Stiles replied.

 

Crossing her arms, Lydia stared at them.

 

Stiles grinned. “You're welcome to hang out with us,” he said.

 

So she did. Refusing to leave, Lydia watched as they chatted together, made a slight attempt on their homework, and included Peter in all of their conversations.

 

She returned the next day after school, dragging a complaining Jackson with her, frowning as she watched the way they greeted Peter.

 

Stubborn, intelligent, and curious, by the end of the week Lydia had begun talking to Peter herself. Jackson scoffed, but the way his eyes softened as he looked at Isaac's newfound confidence and happiness, suggested to Stiles that he wasn't as opposed to it all as he wanted them to believe.

 

When Danny joined them, confused and curious as to what was drawing his two friends to the hospital room again and again, Stiles was hardly surprised, and simply sat back and smiled as he watched them slowly begin to form ties to the Pack.

 

*

 

“Has it helped?” Danny asked.

 

“What?” Glancing up from his latest book (borrowed from Peter, of course), Stiles blinked at the other boy.

 

Glancing around, Danny jerked his head towards Peter. “What I gave you,” he said. “Has it helped?”

 

Stiles grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks. So far there's been no threat, but I'm keeping an eye on it. It helps to have some idea as to what they're talking about.”

 

“Um, I have a question,” Isaac said. “What are you talking about?”

 

Mouth dropping open, Stiles realised that he had neglected to inform any of the others about his tracking of the Hunter's phone.

 

“Oh,” he said. “It's just something that Danny set up for me.”

 

“That something being?” Erica asked.

 

“Remember that first time we all felt like we had to be here?” he asked. “And I said it was likely the Pack Bonds? The I called you through them?”

 

Ignoring the way Lydia frowned, Jackson scowled and Danny appeared confused, Stiles focused on the others, getting their agreement.

 

“We got talking about Pack Bonds,” he continued. “And I forgot to tell you much about why I thought I'd used them to call you here.”

 

“The man,” said Boyd.

 

Stiles nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “There was a man here, said he was a friend of Peter's, but Boyd and I heard him talking. He was no friend.”

 

“He threatened to kill Peter,” Boyd said.

 

Stiles nodded. “So,” he said, “I knew that we needed a way to make sure that this 'Frank' didn't hurt Peter. Danny set up a trace on his phone. I've been checking it each evening, making sure there's no reference to anyone coming to hurt Peter.”

 

“Because he's a werewolf,” Lydia said.

 

Stiles gaped at her. Jackson spluttered. Lydia rolled her eyes.

 

“Oh come on,” she said, “you all meet here, in this room, and spend your time reading up on Sparks and werewolves and magic. You act as though he can hear you and you expect him to get better. You've lined the room in protective runes. He lost his family in a fire – and was burnt so badly it was considered a miracle he survived. And you're afraid of someone coming for him. Hurting him. Killing him.” She gestured towards the books lining the room. “So he's a werewolf,” she said, “and you're trying to protect him from Hunters.”

 

“You can't possibly believe he's a werewolf!” Jackson sputtered.

 

Lydia gave him a condescending look. “Do you have a better idea?” she asked.

 

Shaking his head, Jackson stared around at them. “Werewolves aren't real,” he said.

 

“What if they are?” Lydia asked. She glanced at Stiles.

 

Breathing deep, he spread his hands before him, letting his Spark rush down his arms, along his fingers and out at the tips, where it gathered in sparks of light that leapt between them.

 

Jackson stared. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. So magic's real.”

 

“And Peter's a werewolf,” Danny said, shaking his head. “That was unexpected.”

 

“Peter's a werewolf,” Stiles agreed, “and we're his Pack.” Holding out his hands, he let the sparks die away. Stepping forward, Lydia nodded, grasping his hand.

 

“We are,” she said. As she spoke, a warmth flashed between their clasped hands, her Pack Bond slotting back into place inside Stiles.

 

“This doesn't mean I like you,” Jackson declared, placing his hand on top of Lydia's. Another wash of warmth and Stiles smiled at the feel of Jackson's Pack Bond once more in place between them.

 

Danny shrugged, adding his own hand to the pile. “Why not?” he asked. “Peter seems like a nice guy. And no-one should be hunted for who or what they are.”

 

With Danny's Bond slipping into place, Stiles stared around at them. Their Pack was almost complete.

 

*

 

Letting the warmth wash over him, Peter stretched, feeling it fill every atom of his being, washing through his muscles and lending them a strength they hadn't felt in years. His Pack was growing. Around him they moved, constant, leaving and returning in an easy flow that rarely left him alone.

 

Even then their Pack Bonds pulsed in the back of his mind, a constant reminder of them.

 

Time passed. The darkness around Peter began to lighten. Around him, he felt the Bonds between his Pack members growing as they grew to know and accept each other. A family full of love and warmth and laughter, of fierce protectiveness, snide remarks, strong competition and growing understanding.

 

Tail wagging, Peter pressed against the Pack Bonds, taking in the knowledge and scent of Pack as they moved around him.

 

He was getting stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you, once more, to everyone who has commented, added kudos or read this story. It's only taken me a year, but, finally, we are caught up to the beginning of the Christmas Chapter time-wise.  
> I plan to reorder the chapters (if I can) before posting the next chapter, so that they will flow in chronological order.  
> Also a big thank you for everyone's patience with my slow updates as I've been working through a number of things. This being a new year, I have hopes for it being a better and easier one than the year before.  
> Happy 2016 everyone!


	17. Interlude: Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (an interlude - Christmas with the Pack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came about as I wanted to write a Christmas chapter, involving the Pack, and knew I'd never get the fic, chronologically, to where it needed to be for that in time to have it out before Christmas.  
> So, I decided to write it out of order and slip it in as an interlude. It is entirely possible that this will end up being a later chapter in the fic. Obviously I've included members of the Pack in this Interlude who have yet to join the Pack, although I have plans for how all of them do so.  
> So consider this a future-chapter, which you receive now, just in time for Christmas. Mostly fluffy, because who doesn't love Christmas fluff?  
> My apologies it's not the next chapter, but hopefully this will tide you over until I can get that out.

Interlude: Christmas

 

“So,” Stiles said, stumbling into the room in his usual fashion, arms laden with a large cardboard box. “Christmas!” he turned to beam at Peter. The older man was sitting in his chair, facing the window.

 

Dumping the box on the bed, Stiles moved over to him. “School lets out tomorrow,” he continued, giving Peter a pat on the shoulder before turning to survey the room. “Then holidays! Two weeks of nothing but fun!”

 

“Don't forget your homework,” Melissa said, smiling as she stepped into the room, followed by Scott. Stiles scowled.

 

“I was actually doing rather well at ignoring that slight issue until you arrived,” he said, before turning back to Peter. “I mean, why do they even give us homework over the holidays? They're holidays! They're meant to be fun!”

 

“What's this?” Scott asked, poking at the box before pulling out a long strand of tinsel.

 

“Christmas decorations!” Stiles declared. “I thought we could try and add some festivity to Peter's room.”

 

“Sounds good,” Melissa agreed. She stepped towards the door. “I'll come pick you two up when I get off shift. Your father's working late tonight, so you'll have dinner with us, Stiles.”

 

“Sure,” Stiles agreed, already over at the box and pouring through it next to Scott.

 

Scott frowned. They had scattered the contents of the box around them, Stiles keeping up a steady stream of chatter to Peter as they did so, describing each item they unearthed.

 

“There's no tree,” Scott said.

 

“Hmm?” Glancing up, Stiles considered their decorations. “Uh, no,” he agreed. “We didn't have one spare.”

 

“I think we might have one,” Erica said, entering the room and making both boys jump as they turned to her. She grinned. “Just a small one, we can put it on the bookshelf there.”

 

“We'll need more ornaments, then,” Scott added, brow furrowing as he began to plan.

 

“Right,” Erica agreed, pulling out her phone and shooting off a text. “I'll ask the others if they have anything they can bring. We can meet here after school tomorrow and set it up.”

 

Stiles grinned. “Catwoman,” he declared, “you are the best!”

 

Erica blushed, but smirked back at him. “Of course,” she agreed.

 

*

 

Racing down the front steps of the school, relishing those first few moments of freedom, Stiles grinned. A horn honked. Looking up, he frowned to see Lydia motioning him towards her mother's car. Jackson was sitting in the back, already scowling.

 

“What's up?” Stiles asked as he reached it.

 

“Get in, Loser,” Jackson said. “We're going shopping.”

 

“Erica said we're decorating Peter's room,” Lydia explained, giving Stiles a pointed look when he didn't immediately climb into the car. “To do that, we need supplies.” She smiled, sharp and full of promise.  
  


“Right,” Stiles agreed. Having known (will know?) Lydia quite well for some time, he climbed into the car before she could become any more insistent. “I thought we were just grabbing whatever spares we had lying around,” he said.

 

“Please,” Lydia replied, “as if. No, if we're going to do this, we're going to do it right.”

 

What followed was, honestly, one of the scariest experiences of Stiles' life (and he'd had his life threatened on numerous occasions). By the end of it, he actually felt sorry for Jackson if the other boy had to put up with shopping trips with Lydia on a regular basis.

 

Still, they left the shops with a large tree, numerous ornaments, lights and other decorations. Lydia's mother sighed, seeing the pile of shopping, but drove them over to the hospital.

 

_Where are you?_ Scott text ed Stiles as they pulled up.

 

_Out front._ Stiles replied.  _We bring supplies. Send help._

 

Moments later, Isaac, Scott and Boyd appeared, eyebrows rising as they saw the packages being removed from the rear of the car.

 

“Wow,” said Scott. “What did you do? Buy the whole store?”

 

“Hardly,” Lydia replied, “just the essentials.”

 

'Essentials?' Scott mouthed to Stiles. Shrugging, Stiles grabbed one end of the large Christmas tree as Scott grabbed the other.

 

They moved everything into Peter's room, where Erica was waiting for them and stringing popcorn garlands. She raised an eyebrow as they all entered, but shifted to make room.

 

“Danny will join us soon,” Jackson explained, reaching out to brush a hand gently over Peter's shoulder (Stiles beamed – the Pack was slowly picking up cues like that from him and incorporating them into how they interacted). “His parents needed him for something first.”

 

“Awesome!” Stiles declared, squeezing Peter's other shoulder before turning to the new boxes and piles of decorations the others had brought.

 

What followed was, by parts, both amazing and an incredible exercise in self-restraint and negotiation. Lydia was determined to direct the decorating of the room and insistent on using their new supplies. Erica, Isaac and Boyd, though not as assertive at first (Erica soon got into it), were put-out that she was ignoring their contributions and, in their own ways, desperate to see the old ornaments that held so much meaning to them used.

 

Erica's small plastic tree ended up on the bookshelf. The large real one Lydia had chosen went in the corner of the room. It was decorated with a mix of new and old ornaments, until it looked, as Stiles put it, like a 'proper Christmas tree, not a show piece' (even Lydia had had a soft smile on her face at that).

 

Tinsel and popcorn garlands were draped along the edges of the bookshelves and the window. Danny arrived with lights, which went everywhere – the tree, the bookshelves, the window, across the roof.

 

By the time they finished, the whole room glittered and shone and was full of the smell of pine.

 

“Wow!” Turning, Stiles watched as Carrie stepped into the room. “This is...” her voice trailed off.

 

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. Pride swelled within his chest as he looked around at their group, their Pack. Scott, Isaac, Erica and Boyd. Lydia, Jackson and Danny. He grinned over at Peter.

 

“Okay,” Lydia called, “group photo.” She turned to Carrie. “Can you take it, Carrie?” she asked, smile bright and eyes lit up in a way Stiles had barely ever seen. Pure happiness.

 

“Of course,” Carrie agreed. Fumbling for his phone, Stiles pushed it into her hands before gathering with the others around Peter's chair – Boyd and Jackson having moved it so it was before the Christmas tree and facing Carrie.

 

They piled in around Peter, grinning and shoving as they got situated, lights gleaming behind them.

 

“Say 'cheese',” Carrie said.

 

“Cheese!” they chorused, Scott elbowing Stiles in the side, which made him laugh, turning to hit Scott back and knocking into Erica. Erica stumbled, flinging a hand out to Peter to steady herself and caused a chain reaction.

 

The photo, when Stiles got his phone back from Carrie, was perfect.

 

Stiles was turned to face Scott, laughing, while Scott beamed brightly directly at the camera. Erica had her hand on Peter's shoulder, her shoulder held steady by Boyd. Isaac had his hand on Peter's other shoulder, and Jackson had slung an arm around the slightly younger boy to steady him. Danny was gripping Jackson's shoulder and had his other arm around Lydia, who had her hand stretched out to press against Scott and hold herself up.

 

Grinning, Stiles immediately group-sent it to the whole Pack. Then, fingers hovering over his phone, he hesitated for a moment before quickly sending it off once more.

 

“So,” said Isaac faux-casually as they began to gather their things and prepare to leave. “Christmas.”

 

“Mmmm,” Lydia agreed. “I was thinking mid-afternoon,” she said. “My father will want me for lunch and my mother for dinner. Mid-afternoon should work well.”

 

Stiles nodded. “Dad's got the afternoon/evening shift,” he said, “so we'll do the family thing in the morning.”

 

“My family always celebrates in the morning,” Boyd agreed softly.

 

“Well, mine likes their afternoon sleep,” Danny said.

 

“I can probably get away then,” Isaac murmured.

 

“Of course you can,” Jackson added, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Just slip round to mine and we'll come together.”

 

“Mom's working the afternoon,” Scott offered, “so if anyone needs a lift we could pick them up.”

 

“I could do with a lift,” Erica said, “but afternoon should work fine.”

 

“Afternoon it is, then,” Stiles declared. “We'll meet here and have our own little Christmas.”

 

*

 

Miles away, a dark-haired woman jumped as her phone beeped. Frowning, she picked it up, turning it over to see a new message waiting. Her frown cleared as she opened the message, mouth dropping open in surprise.

 

“Derek!” she gasped. “Derek! Come and look!”

 

Moments later, Derek joined her, leaning over her shoulder to stare down at the photo showing on her phone. A soft whine left his throat.

  
“I know,” Laura agreed, biting her lip. “I wish we could be there, too.”

 

*

 

The lead-up to Christmas passed quickly, in a flurry of gift-buying and cooking and time spent just relishing not being at school.

 

As usual, Stiles was up early Christmas morning. It was strange, this first Christmas (and yet not his first), without his mother, and Stiles knew his father, especially, would be feeling it.

 

So he pulled out all the stops and did his best to try and ensure they enjoyed it anyway.

 

By afternoon, as his father was strapping on his belt and looking apologetic, Stiles shook his head. “I'll be fine,” he said. “We're all meeting up at Peter's, anyway.”

 

The Sheriff smiled. “I thought it strange, at first,” he admitted, “but I am so thankful for all the changes that man has wrought in your life, even without being able to do anything.” Stiles grinned back at him.

 

“Yeah,” he agreed softly.

 

Dropped off at the hospital, Stiles wandered inside, finding Lydia already there, humming softly along to some Christmas music she had put on.

 

“Stiles,” she greeted him, holding up a book obviously taken from Peter's shelves. “Have you read this one yet? What do you think of the idea of magic pools that linger in certain places?”

 

Laughing, Stiles moved over to sit by her – on the floor before the tree – pausing to pat Peter's shoulder on the way and place his gifts by those Lydia had already arranged beneath the heavily-laden boughs.

 

“Food!” Scott declared when he arrived, carrying large containers with him and followed by Melissa.

 

Lydia smiled. “It looks great, Mrs McCall, thanks,” she said.

 

“You are the best!” Stiles declared, giving Melissa a quick hug as he relieved her of her containers.

 

“Enjoy your afternoon,” she replied, giving them all a quick squeeze (including Peter), before heading off for her shift.

 

Erica, lingering behind them, brought dessert, but wouldn't let them touch it until the others arrived. Jackson, Danny and Isaac came together, pushing more presents under the tree and laughing as they set up the drinks by one side of the room.

 

Boyd arrived last, hurrying in and brushing snow from his hair.

 

Staring around at them all gathered there, Stiles couldn't keep the grin from his face. Reaching out, Jackson and Scott (for once not arguing or sniping), dragged Peter's chair closer so that he was included in their half-circle before the tree.

 

These people – these were his Pack. Those he'd thought, once, he'd lost forever. And yet here they all were – well, not all of them. But that, Stiles was sure, would come with time. For now, this was enough. He could wait.

 

“Presents!” Scott declared, fairly vibrating in place as he looked around at them all.

 

“Presents or food?” Erica asked, looking over to where they'd piled all the containers. Scott bit his lip, suddenly indecisive.

 

Laughing, Stiles bodily threw himself over to the food, dragging it towards them. “Why not both?” he asked.

 

“Please,” Erica replied. “You'll make a mess.” She pushed her toes against Stiles' calf. “Presents first, then food.”

 

With a sigh, Stiles left the food alone, returning to the circle. He paused. This was their first Christmas together (not his, but this was so much better than the first Christmas he remembered with the Pack in the previous timeline), and they had yet to firm up any traditions. Such as who would hand out the presents.

 

“Go on, Isaac,” Stiles said, nudging the boy forward. “Hand them out for us?”

 

The next few moments were pure chaos. Wrapping paper ended up everywhere, ribbons adorned their hair and a paper-ball fight broke out between Scott, Jackson, Boyd and Stiles. By the time they finished, each person had a small pile of presents by them and were beaming around at the others. Eyes lit up with the happiness that came from finding a family in the people around them, as strange as it was.

 

Plucking a bow from his hair, Danny turned to the last pile of presents, sitting placidly in Peter's lap. “Peter's turn,” he said.

 

“This is from Scott,” Stiles explained, grabbing the top one and showing it to Peter before ripping the paper open. “Oh look – he got you a weird paper-weight thing.” Stiles turned it from side to side, examining it. Then he shrugged. “It kind of looks like your other ones,” he said, “all abstract art, so I'm sure you'll like it. Good job, Scott.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Scott grabbed the next present. “This one's from Erica,” he said, tugging the paper off to reveal a hand-drawn portrait of the entire Pack, lounging around in Peter's room, but with Peter awake and laughing with them.

 

“Oh that's perfect,” Stiles breathed, reaching out to touch it. For a moment he _ached_ , every Pack-bond within him wanting to reach out to the perfect moment Erica had drawn. He beamed across at her. Blushing, Erica ducked her head, before straightening and grabbing the next present.

 

“Well this one's from Stiles,” she said. Unwrapping the present carefully (and making the boys groan at how long it took her), she revealed a large, leather-covered book. “A book.”

 

“Not just a book,” Stiles told her. “This is a very rare, very important beastiary, that I managed to find on Ebay.” He grinned. “Suckers didn't know what they were selling.” He rubbed his hands together.

 

Scott scrunched his nose up, looking vaguely nauseated. “Bestiary?” he asked.

 

“It's a book about beasts,” Jackson replied, complete with eyeroll but without his usual accompanying derogatory nickname.

 

“Oh.”

 

Grabbing the next present, Jackson tore it open. “From Danny,” he explained, pulling out an iPod.

 

“Sweet!” Stiles exclaimed. “Now we can leave music playing for you even when we're not here.”

 

“It's an iPod,” Jackson added, “in case that was missed beneath Stilinski's enthusiasm.” Stiles just poked his tongue out at the jock.

 

“Right then,” Danny said, picking up the next present. “From Jackson.” He grinned. “Clothes.”

 

“What?” Leaning over, Stiles dragged the clothes before himself before gaping. Oh, Jackson had outdone himself. Soft sweaters, slacks, things that Stiles could instantly see Peter in, that casual elegance he had always managed to pull off. Jackson shrugged.

 

“I saw some old photos,” he said. “Figured the guy would actually appreciate the finer things in life, unlike some.”

 

Stiles laughed.

 

“My turn,” Lydia said, reaching out to pluck one of the few remaining presents. “To Peter, from Isaac,” she read. Like Erica, she took her time unwrapping it, smoothing the paper away. “Oh,” she murmured as the wrapping finally fell off. Her fingers dipped down, pulling out a scarf. Reaching out, she wrapped it around Peter's neck. “I do believe he knit this himself,” she said.

 

Stiles blinked. Isaac knitted? How had he missed that? His mind instantly flashed to all the scarves Isaac had worn in the past (future). Had he knitted all of those? For himself? Never quite sure enough of his place in the Pack to knit them for others?  
  


Isaac ducked his head. “It's nothing,” he said.

 

“No,” Stiles replied, “it's perfect.” Reaching out, he let his fingers trace over the soft wool. “I bet he loves it.” There was a responding warm pulse from the Pack-bond that stretched between them and Stiles blinked, wondering whether he'd imagined it.

 

“All right,” Isaac said, leaning forward to grab the next present. “From Boyd.” He also opened it carefully, setting the paper aside to show a smooth wooden box. Tiny leaf-patterns were etched along it's edges and the lid was engraved with the triskellion of the Hale Pack. Stiles sucked his breath in sharply.

 

Boyd shrugged. “I saw that symbol on a few things around here,” he said. “Figured it probably meant something.”

 

“Man,” Stiles complained, “why am I only now finding out all this awesome stuff about all of you? I'm beginning to think I'm going to need to take up some kind of creative hobby. Erica draws, Isaac knits, Boyd carves.”

 

Scott had a panicked look on his face at Stiles' words.

 

“Please,” Jackson replied, “stick to what you're good at.” He didn't elaborate, but the way he nudged his shoulder against Stiles' took any possible sting from the words.

 

“Final present,” Boyd said, “from Lydia.” The wrapping fell away to show a voucher for something called a 'mani-pedi'. Stiles squinted, turning his head to try and make it make sense.

 

“What?” he asked.

 

Lydia scoffed. “A manicure and pedicure,” she said. “I always got the impression Peter likes to take good care of himself. So, while he can't just yet, we'll get some professionals in to do up his hands and feet for him.”

 

Stiles blinked, before flinging his arms around her and dragging the others in. “You're perfect,” he declared. “You're all perfect!”

 

Laughing, Scott pushed him away after a moment, moving towards the food. Soon they were laughing and talking, eating from the numerous containers that had been brought, drinking and even singing along to the music Lydia turned up.

 

Jackson produced bon-bons from somewhere and there was even more laughter as they pulled them, before a mad scrabble to force the paper crowns onto each other's heads ensued. It ended with Scott, Stiles, Isaac, Erica and Danny wearing their crowns proudly. Jackson's and Boyd's were ripped, Lydia was without and Peter seemed to have gained hers, giving him two.

 

Leaning back against Peter's legs, looking around at the others, all laughing and smiling, Stiles sighed. _This was why he had returned_ , he thought.

 

*

 

Full of food and drink and just reaching that stage when he was ready to settle down for a quick nap, Stiles almost didn't hear the door open. Turning lazily, he blinked in surprise when he saw Allison poking her head in.

 

Eyes widening as she took in the wrapping paper, food container and teenager spread room.

 

“Um,” she said.

 

Looking up from where he had been slowly helping Isaac demolish the rest of the food, Scott stared in slack-jawed awe before managing to recover himself as Stiles reached over with his foot to poke him.

 

“Hi,” Scott said, face lighting up.

 

“Hi,” Allison replied. She blushed. “Sorry to just barge in like this, I didn't realise anyone would be in here.” She glanced around the room once more.

 

“Welcome to our Christmas,” Stiles said, waving her forward. “What brings you here?”  
  


Making a face, Allison carefully picked her way through the room to take a seat between Stiles and Scott. “My family,” she said.

 

Scott's face immediately fell. “Are they unwell?” he asked.

 

“Oh. No.” Allison shook her head. She frowned. “I don't actually know what's going on with them,” she said. “Dad heard Aunt Kate talking to someone,” (Stiles pressed harder back against Peter's legs in response to that name, pushing his affection and reassurance down the packbond), “and then said something about 'looking into it', whatever that means. He and Mom then decided to up and leave our family Christmas dinner. I wasn't going to let that just happen, so snuck into the back of the car. By the time they realised they just decided to let me come along.” She shrugged. “We came here and they've been pestering the nurses ever since. I got bored and thought I'd have a look around. The long-term ward seemed the best place to not actually bother anyone.” She glanced down.

 

“You're not bothering us,” Scott said, beaming brilliantly at her. Stiles could practically see his best friend falling in love all over again. “We've just been having a bit of a Christmas get together.”

 

“So, who's the patient?” Allison asked.

 

“Peter,” Stiles said, reaching up to pat Peter's knee. “He's in a coma. Has been for four years. I started coming here after my Mom died. He was just... easy to talk to. Then the others slowly joined and so now it's kinda where we hang out.” He chose his words carefully, aware that her parents might question her later, but also wanting, desperately, to grab her and drag her into the Pack with them. “There was a fire,” he explained. “The Hale house burnt down. Peter was the only one inside who survived.”

 

“Oh no,” Allison replied, sympathy filling her face and Stiles was instantly reminded that this was an Allison of innocence, before everything they had gone through had taught her to be hard. “How did the fire -” she cut herself off. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't -”

 

“It's okay,” Stiles told her. “No-one knows what started the fire.” He paused. “I think it was deliberately lit.” Allion's hand flew to her mouth. Stiles shrugged. “Just some things I've found out,” he explained, “that don't quite add up.”

 

“Stiles' father is the Sheriff,” Scott added, “so he's grown up trying to solve crimes.”

 

Allison smiled and nodded.

 

“But enough of that,” Stiles said. Grinning, he nudged her – instantly, his Pack-bond snapped out, rushing from him and into her, carried along by his Spark until it thrummed between them once more. Shaking his head to push away the rush of yet another restored packbond, Stiles forced himself to keep speaking. “Tell us about you,” he said.

 

Allison shrugged, but began to speak. Scott listened with the wide-eyed awe of his utter crush on her.

 

A little while later, Allison slipped off, saying that she didn't want her parents to start looking for her and thanking them for including her.

 

“I should head off, too,” Lydia sighed, pushing herself to her feet and leaning over to give Peter a quick kiss on the cheek. “My mother will be expecting me soon.” Smiling around at them, she left.

 

Danny, Jackson and Isaac also left, heading off together. Stiles watched them go with tight eyes, but was pleased to see Isaac wearing the necklace he had made for the younger boy. While it simply appeared to be a casual piece of jewellery, Stiles had woven each piece and strand with his Spark, tying them tightly with every protection he had ever learnt and could find in Peter's extensive library. He might not be able to take Isaac away from his father just yet, but he would do his best to keep him safe despite that.

 

Boyd and Erica left together, so it was just Scott and Stiles remaining.

 

“Bathroom break!” Stiles declared, standing up and slipping past Scott towards the door. Stepping out into the hallway, he quickly hurried towards the front desk, but kept himself from view. As he got closer, he heard the sound of voices and slowed to listen.

 

They were heading towards him.

 

“Peter is this way,” he heard Carrie say, a gentle frown in her voice.

 

Racing back the way he came, Stiles burst in on Scott, motioning for him to gather their things. Thankful that Scott was so often on the same wavelength as him, Stiles ushered them out of the room and within moments they were hiding round the corner.

 

A quick, sneaky glance showed Carrie approaching, following by Chris and Victoria Argent. Stiles felt his hands clenching into fists. No matter how well they had ended up working with Chris in the end, he still remembered how it had all started. Remembered the way Chris had physically and verbally threatened him. Remembered Victoria almost killing Scott. Remembered how the secrets and lies had affected Allison.

 

He stirred, restless, and realised that it was not all coming from him. Peter was agitated. Sending soothing reassurance back down the packbond, Stiles let his hand drop to his side, fingers rubbing together and then flicking out. As he did so, he _imagined_ , letting his Spark drop down through his fingers and then out into the hallway.

 

It flew the short distance between them, through the open door, to settle upon Peter. Stiles had yet to find a way to use his Spark to listen in on another's conversation as though he was in the room – all he had found was a way to listen in on what another could hear.

 

Generally, that other would notice something, but he figured that Peter was unlikely to give anything away in his current condition. Usually, Stiles would prefer to ask the recipient before using their ears as his, but doubted Peter would mind when it was to keep them in the loop as to what the Argents were up to. _I just hope we're right and you actually can hear what's going on around you_ , Stiles thought.

 

“He hasn't woken up?” Chris' voice asked, as though in the room with him.

 

“No,” Carrie replied. “As I mentioned, a few of the local teenagers spend time with him regularly. I think a number of them have come to consider his room an easy place for them to meet up.”

 

“Oh?” Victoria asked.

 

Carrie hesitated. “I don't like to speculate,” she said, “but I get the impression they don't all have the best home life.”

 

“Isn't the Sheriff's son one of them?”

 

“Stiles? He's fine. A more loving family you'd be hard-pressed to find. He started coming here after his mother passed away. She spent a long time here towards the end and we think he just kept coming to the hospital on autopilot, but then had no-one to visit and somehow ended up here.” Stiles could hear the smile in her voice. “He was the one who started it. It doesn't seem to make any difference, really, but it's nice to see a bunch of teenagers so concerned about someone else.”

 

“Of course,” Victoria said, but her tone belied her words. Stiles wanted to punch her.

 

“Can we have a moment?” Chris asked.

 

“Just a few minutes,” Carrie replied. “We'll need to start on dinner soon.” Her footsteps retreated from the room and headed away.

 

Chris sighed. “It looks like there's nothing to worry about,” he said.

 

“It looks that way,” Victoria agreed. “Still, we were thinking of moving, settling down somewhere for Allison to finish her schooling. Perhaps we should move to Beacon Hills. That way we can keep an eye on things.”

 

“Maybe,” Chris agreed. “Although I'm not sure why Kate was worried in the first place. The Hales have never caused any trouble. As tragic as what happened to them was, it hardly needs our involvement.”

 

“A wolf coming out of a coma, with no pack around, could easily go feral,” Victoria replied.

 

“Which we have no evidence of.”

 

“Better safe than sorry.”

 

“It is a quiet town, we could let Allison finish her schooling here, in peace.” Chris mused. “And she did seem to like it as we drove through.”

 

“And the teenagers?” There was a sound as though Victoria moved, perhaps motioning around them at the festive room.

 

“Leave them be,” Chris replied. “What they're doing hardly seems to be doing any harm and it would look strange for us to discourage it.”

 

“Very well.”

 

Their footsteps retreated as they left the room. Stiles sighed, sagging against the wall and dropping the Spark that had attached his hearing to Peter's, before straightening and motioning for Scott to follow him back into the room.

 

“What was that?” Scott asked as they re-entered Peter's room.

 

“Allison's parents, I'd bet,” Stiles replied. Immediately Scott got a dopey look on his face as he remembered Allison. Stiles rolled his eyes but couldn't help but smile.

 

“Allison's the best,” Scott declared.

 

“She is nice,” Stiles agreed. Moving over, he placed his hand on Peter's shoulder. Slowly, he felt the tension from earlier bleed out of the older man's form. Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out his phone. “This is your other present,” he told Peter, pressing down on it. It rang.

 

“Hello?” a voice asked.

 

“Hey,” Stiles replied. “I know this is meant to be just for emergencies, and I promise, after this, it will be, but I figured, it's Christmas.”

 

Soft laughter greeted him. “Stiles,” Laura said. “Thank you for sending the picture earlier.”

 

Stiles shrugged. “Thought you'd like to see what we've done with the place.”

 

“It looks great.”

 

“Anyway, I figured, it being Christmas and all, maybe you'd like to talk to Peter.” He glanced over at where the werewolf sat, staring unblinkingly at the Christmas tree.

 

“That, that would be great, Stiles,” Laura said, voice thick. “Thank you.”

 

“Hey,” Stiles replied. “Merry Christmas.” He placed his phone down on Peter's shoulder, before moving away with Scott. From his phone, the soft sounds of Laura and Derek talking rose and fell. Looking around the room, Stiles couldn't help but smile in pride.

 

When Melissa returned later to take them home, the boys left happily, trailing well wishes and friendly pats in their wake.

 

*

 

Rolling over, Peter felt a grin stretching across his mouth. Around him, the darkness was lighter than ever. Sounds, voices, came easily through to him, and he could understand what they were saying. Pack moved around him. The scent of pine filled his nostrils and laughter and warmth flowed through the room. Stretching, tongue lolling, he let his tail thump rhythmically with happiness. Each day the darkness was a little lighter. _Soon_ , he thought, _soon._


	18. the introduction of a new student

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School resumes, Isaac and Stiles talk, there's a new student, Scott is a puppy-dog, and Peter's getting stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, all I have to say is a MASSIVE apology that it's taken this long to get this out to you. I couldn't quite believe it when I saw that the last time I updated this fic was 9 months ago.  
> Admittedly, I was struggling for a while with where to take the fic next - but I have some ideas now, so hopefully that means that things will continue to flow and updates will start coming on a regular basis once more.
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has read, reviewed, left comments and kudos, and just generally encouraged me with this. And to those who have stuck with me despite the at times slow and upredictable updating schedule. Also MASSIVE THANKS to those who have created works based on this. I adore them all.

The new school term rolled around much faster than any of the teens would have liked. Despite their various backgrounds and the fact that many of them hadn’t even spoken before their small pack had slowly been formed, they were getting to know each other fairly well, pack bonds strengthening as they did so.

 

Peter’s room had been their unofficial hang out space; the nurses, as usual, working around them with indulgent smiles as needed.

 

Coasting his bike through the school gates, Stiles smiled as he remembered the time one of their games afternoons had drawn the attention of Carrie – she had been rather unimpressed by the noise they had all been making. Apparently both Erica and Lydia were _extremely_ competitive.

 

Hopping off his bike, Stiles fastened it to the bike rack, turning without thinking about it to head towards where he could feel the gentle pulse of a number of the pack bonds leading him.

 

Erica, Boyd and Isaac were gathered under one of the trees. Isaac was staring at his… chest? Stiles tilted his head to try and get a better look. As though sensing him, Isaac glanced up. A strange look crossed his face, before Isaac pushed himself upright, brushed off his pants and moved towards Stiles.

 

“We’ll catch up to you guys later,” he called back to the others.

 

Confused by Isaac’s actions, but willing to follow his lead, Stiles walked with Isaac away from the tree and round the side of the school building. Isaac led them on until they were near the woods just past the lacrosse field, where there was currently no-one around.

 

Stopping, Isaac turned to face Stiles. His face was serious, thoughtful. Reaching down to his neck, Isaac gently lifted the necklace Stiles had given him for Christmas.

 

“What did you do to it?” he asked.

 

Stiles blinked, mind scrambling to catch up. “Uh -” he began.

 

“I know you did something,” Isaac continued. “You had to have – I’ve never seen...” his voice trailed off and he swallowed, glancing away. “I know it’s real,” he said, voice soft. “I _know_ it’s real – but… Stiles, what did you do?”

 

“I...” Stiles felt his voice choke off. Reminded that this was something they didn’t talk about. They didn’t talk about Isaac’s home situation. About the bruises he sometimes turned up to school with – always only really visible if you knew to look, or seemingly easily explained. About the way he sometimes flinched, particularly after he’d had to spend some time at home.

 

So how was Stiles meant to explain that, even though they didn’t talk about it, even though Isaac refused to let them do anything about it – well, Stiles _had_.

 

“Stiles?” Isaac prompted.

 

Sighing, Stiles ran a hand through his hair – what little of it there was. “It’s a protection,” he said. Isaac’s hand tightened around the necklace.

 

“Go on,” he said.

 

Stiles shrugged, holding his arms out to either side. “That’s all,” he said, “it’s just – it’s a protection. You know, like the runes we put around Peter’s room.”

 

“It’s very strong,” Isaac said slowly.

 

Biting his lip, Stiles nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I think I’m getting better at the whole Spark-protection thing.”

 

“Why did you give it to me?”

 

Stiles stared across at Isaac, meeting the other boys eyes with a question in his own. ‘Do you really want to know?’ it asked. Isaac nodded slightly.

 

Blinking, Stiles glanced down at the ground, before forcing himself to meet Isaac’s eyes once more. This was something he was serious about.

 

“I know you don’t like to talk about what goes on at home,” he said, motioning towards Isaac as he spoke. The other teen froze in place, even his breath seeming to stop. “But,” Stiles continued, “I also know things aren’t great.” Isaac’s eyes widened. “So,” Stiles said, “because you won’t let me do anything to get you out of there, well, I figured the next best thing was to try and make you safer there.”

 

Isaac’s knuckles turned white with the force with which he was grasping his necklace.

 

“So, I took what I’d learnt about using my Spark to create protections for others,” Stiles continued. “At first, I thought of using heaps of runes, like we did for Peter’s room. But that would mean I’d have to be able to carve or etch them somehow – and I’m no Boyd.” Isaac gave a slight smile at the mention of Boyd’s carving skills.

 

“Still,” Stiles said, “I’ve been reading more of Peter’s books -” a snort. Rolling his eyes, Stiles nodded. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Fancy that me, me reading.” He shared a grin with Isaac. “Well, there are other ways to create protections,” he said, nodding toward the necklace. “I kind of braided it together,” he said, referring to the braided cord that made up most of the necklace. “While doing so, I pushed my Spark into it – into each strand, weaving it together with Protections on it.

 

“I added some runes,” he admitted, nodding at the carved wooden beads. “And a whole bunch of stuff from Peter’s library about how when you create something you can imbue it with things – like protection.

 

“I wanted it to be as strong as possible,” he admitted. “So that, if you wouldn’t leave or let us help you by telling anyone, well, maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t get as hurt.”

 

There was a pause, Stiles’ eyes dropping back to the ground.

 

“Thank you,” Isaac said.

 

Stiles glanced up, giving a crooked grin. “You’re not mad?” he asked. He’d honestly been worried that, once Isaac realised what the necklace was (if it worked), he would be offended or mad that Stiles had pushed again where Isaac obviously didn’t want him doing anything.

 

Isaac shrugged. “You found a way for me to stay with my father, and stay safe,” he said. “It works. Besides, I know you a bit better now.”

 

Stiles swallowed. He wanted to say that Isaac couldn’t keep staying with his father indefinitely. That just because Stiles may have lessened the physical damage to Isaac using the necklace, it wouldn’t do anything to stop the emotional damage he was suffering.

 

But he doubted Isaac would be open to that line of discussion. The fact that Isaac wasn’t mad about the necklace he felt was a big enough victory.

 

So he focused instead on the other part of their discussion.

 

“It works?” he asked.

 

“It works,” Isaac agreed, smiling slightly. “At first, I thought maybe I was imagining things,” he admitted. “He tried to – well, he hit me. But I didn’t feel anything.” Stiles nodded, encouraging him to go on. “And then, the next day, there were no bruises.” There was a kind of awe in Isaac’s voice that made Stiles’ chest ache.

 

“And last night,” Isaac continued, voice breathy, “it _glowed_.”

 

Stiles froze. Because, while he hadn’t been sure that particular protection would work when he was weaving it in – he almost didn’t want to know that it had been needed. It meant that things had been going on for far longer than he had thought the first time around.

 

Because Stiles had added that protection just in case. Just in case Isaac found himself somewhere where it was dark and he was trapped, and a light could make a difference.

 

Swallowing, Stiles met Isaac’s eyes. “The light worked?” he asked.

 

Isaac nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t know how you knew to add that, but...” his voice trailed off and he shrugged, glancing away. It was a sign of how close their small pack had grown that he wasn’t drawing away from Stiles, that he was allowing that vulnerability to remain, unspoken, between them.

 

“Did, did your father notice?” Stiles asked – because that had been his greatest fear when creating the necklace. That, somehow, if Isaac’s father noticed that his actions weren’t having the same effect any more, he’d become even more furious, and manage to break through the protections in his anger, harming Isaac moreso than if Stiles had done nothing.

 

“No,” Isaac said, shaking his head. “He’s never quite… all there, when it happens. I mean, he gets so mad he just...” Isaac’s voice trailed off.

 

Stiles nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll need to recharge it,” he said.

 

Isaac’s eyes shot up to meet his. “What?”

 

“I’ll need to recharge it,” Stiles repeated. “The protection will only last so long,” he explained, “when it has to work so hard to keep protecting you.”

 

Isaac frowned.

 

“Think of it like this,” Stiles explained, “usually, protective items or runes lie dormant – they only activate when they need to actively protect someone.” Isaac nodded, that made sense. “So,” Stiles continued, “they don’t take much power to maintain. The ‘charge’ they get when created is usually enough to last for a long time. Years, decades, centuries even, depending on the item. If they do activate, they slowly draw in more power from their surroundings in order to recharge once more.”

 

“Okay,” agreed Isaac, “so why -”

 

“Because if they activate too often, they don’t have time to recharge.”

 

Swallowing, Isaac glanced away. Chancing it, Stiles reached out, gripping his shoulder. “Think of it like opposing forces,” he said. “Usually, protections don’t have to activate that often – so when they do, they then recharge. But each time they’re activated, they’re working against whatever is trying to cause harm. So the more often or the greater the harmful force, the more likely that they will not be able to get enough of a recharge, as quickly as needed, from their surroundings.”

 

He paused, watching Isaac. It seemed as though the other teen understood, though he still looked rather hesitant to say anything to Stiles. To open up enough to say when he would need the necklace recharged.

 

“Look,” Stiles said, “if you don’t want me to say anything, or ask questions – I won’t. But you have to let me know when you feel the protections start to fade, so that I can recharge them.”

 

“How will I know?” Isaac asked.

 

Stiles grimaced. “When you start feeling the hits again – hopefully it’ll start with just, you know, you feeling it lightly. But as soon as that happens, I need to recharge it. Otherwise, we need to set up a time for me to recharge it regularly.”

 

He offered the latter in case Isaac felt more comfortable with that, though Stiles, himself, was worried that if they set something like that up and Isaac needed the necklace recharged earlier, he wouldn’t say anything.

 

Biting his lip, Isaac glanced away.

 

“Isaac,” Stiles said, placing his hand on his shoulder. “Promise me you’ll let me know if it needs to be recharged?” he asked.

 

Slowly, Isaac nodded.

 

“Okay,” Stiles said. “Okay.”

 

 

*

 

 

Their English lesson that morning was interrupted by the introduction of a new student. Watching Allison stand, self-consciously, at the front of the classroom, Stiles could barely contain his grin.

 

Scott, he could tell without looking, was practically vibrating out of his seat with glee. It was good to see that some things didn’t change, even if the two were meeting earlier than they had last time.

 

The dopey smile that took up residence on Scott’s face and refused to leave was both comfortingly familiar and fondly exasperating.

 

“You know,” Stiles said, as they moved between classes, “it would help if you actually spoke to her.”

 

Scott glanced, wide-eyed at his friend. “I can’t speak to her!” he exclaimed. “What would I say?”

 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You’ve already spoken to her, remember?” he reminded gently. Before giving Scott a shove in Allison’s direction. “Now, come on!”

 

Stumbling forward, Scott shuffled sheepishly over to where Allison was standing by her locker. Glancing up at him, Allison smiled, both her dimples showing. Stiles grinned, he was good.

 

 

*

 

 

“These are the losers we sometimes sit with at lunch,” Lydia explained, leading Allison over to where Stiles, Scott, Isaac and Boyd were already eating. Placing her tray down, Lydia primly took a seat, motioning for Allison to do the same.

 

Spotting her, Scott’s face grew a broad, dopey grin that didn’t appear to be going anywhere fast. Stiles shared a look with Boyd. Oh yeah, Scott had it _bad_.

 

“You were all at the hospital, right?” Allison asked, glancing around at them.

 

“Yeah,” Scott replied, all eager puppy – pay-attention-to-me, let-me-help-you. It was both adorable and somewhat nauseating.

 

Looking down at her food, Allison moved her juice around on her tray. “Thank you,” she said, “for including me that afternoon. I really appreciated it.” She glanced back up with a smile.

 

“You’re always welcome to join us,” Scott replied, smiling back.

 

Jackson groaned, dropping into the seat beside Lydia. “Smooth, McCall,” he said. “Real smooth.”

 

Scott shot him a glare.

 

Stiles was pleased to note that neither teens’ words or glares were really serious the way they had been in the past.

 

Allison blushed.

 

“Ignore Jackson,” Erica said, smiling at Allison as she joined them. “We do.”

 

“Hey!” Jackson protested. Stiles snickered into his lunch.

 

“Erica,” Erica continued, nodding at Allison.

 

“I remember,” Allison admitted. “You were at the hospital too, right?”

 

“We all were,” Stiles said, giving her a grin. “And Danny who,” he glanced around before turning to Jackson. “Where is Danny?” he asked.

 

Jackson rolled his eyes. “What am I?” he asked, “His keeper? He said he wanted to check up on an extra-credit project he’s proposed.”

 

“Ooh, getting in early,” Erica said.

 

Jackson shrugged.

 

“You could come with us this afternoon, if you want,” Scott said eagerly told Allison.

 

Stiles’ gaze shot to her, taking in her reaction. She appeared slightly confused.

 

“Come with you?” she asked. “Where are you going?”

 

“To visit Peter,” Scott replied, all eager, innocent enthusiasm. Allison smiled, although she appeared still somewhat confused by his response.

 

“You’re going to visit the man in the hospital?” she asked.

 

“We often do,” Isaac put in. “Peter doesn’t have any family to visit him, so...” he shrugged.

 

“That’ s really sweet.”

 

“Well,” said Lydia, “it gives us a place to hang out, with adult supervision, but he never tells us off.” They shared grins around the table.

 

“So?” Scott asked, “you want to join us?”

 

“Sure,” Allison agreed. “Why not.”

 

 

*

 

 

“Hey Peter!” Stiles called out, swinging round the door-frame and into Peter’s room. “Guess who we brought with us today?” Dumping his bag, he moved over to where Peter was sitting in his chair, giving the man a quick hug. Behind him, the others piled into the room.

 

“This is Allison,” Scott introduced her enthusiastically. “She’s amazing. She’s just started going to school with us, and...” his voice died out as he realised just what he’d been saying, and the half-embarrassed, half-pleased look on Allison’s face.

 

“She was here at Christmas,” Stiles explained, “and thought she’d come with us this afternoon.” Moving over to the window, he pushed it open, breathing deep of the fresh air.

 

“I see you’re all here again,” Melissa said, popping her head in. “Make sure you get your homework done.” Giving them all a smile, she ducked out once more.

 

Rolling his eyes, Stiles dragged his school bag towards himself, digging inside for his homework.

 

“It’s only the first day back at school,” he said, “you’d think they could be somewhat lenient with us. But nooo, it’s all, read this, and do that, and fill this out, and write an essay on that.”

 

“Stop complaining Stilinski,” Lydia ordered, bumping him out of her way with her shoulder, “and come go over this Chemistry with me.”

 

“Ugh. Chemistry.” Stiles replied.

 

 

*

 

 

Drifting contentedly in the warmth of being surrounded by pack, Peter stretched his senses out to try and make out more of the non-pack person they’d brought with them. He knew she’d been there once before. Understood what they told him about her. But there was just something…

 

Shifting, he tried to figure out what it was about her that was tickling his memory. Her smell?

 

Still, his pack was happy and content, unworried by her presence. So Peter let himself sink back into the warmth of pack, the soft hum of their pack bonds, and the slowly gathering strength he could feel in his limbs.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Just in Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1931586) by [tolieawake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolieawake/pseuds/tolieawake)
  * [Cover or "Strength of the Wolf"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2630021) by [Makoyi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makoyi/pseuds/Makoyi)
  * [thought we built a dynasty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6433741) by [choncena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/choncena/pseuds/choncena)
  * [The Strength of the Wolf: Christmas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7384024) by [BlackhawkIris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackhawkIris/pseuds/BlackhawkIris)




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